The Devil Made Me Do It
by AJ Wesley
Summary: Sam and Dean head into the Pine Barrens to investigate a series of disappearances, and soon find themselves targeted by the local legend. Set in first season. Winner of the 2007 Fan Q Award for Best Supernatural Story.
1. Chapter 1

**The Devil Made Me Do It**

**Chapter 1**

"I spy, by and by, something…green."

Without lifting his eyes from the map he was scrutinizing, Sam answered, "A tree."

"Ah, but which one?" his brother asked from the driver's seat.

Sam sighed, his patience stretched to its limit. "All of them, Dean, okay? Now can you please let me figure this out?"

Unfazed, Dean said, "What's there to figure out?" His fingers beat a steady rhythm on the steering wheel. "We're in New Jersey, in the middle of the Pine Barrens."

"There aren't even any mile markers." Sam frowned at the map. "How are we supposed to figure out where we need to go?" He looked over at Dean. "I mean, we need a little more to go on than 'turn right at the big dead tree after the crossroads.'"

Dean grinned, remembering the all-too-eager waitress at the diner where they had stopped for lunch. Sam had smiled, and she had practically melted into a puddle on the floor. They did get quite a bit of information from her, but directions? Well, it had gotten them this far… "Hey, she was just trying to be helpful."

Sam blushed. "Yeah, well, next time you can ask for directions."

The Impala slowed to a stop. "Okay," Dean agreed.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he glanced up at his brother. That had been way too easy. Something was up. "What?"

Ducking his head, Dean peered out the window over Sam's shoulder.

Sam followed his gaze. "What?!"

Dean put the car in reverse and backed up slowly, bringing a dirt road into view. Nailed to a tree beside the road was a sign that read "Ernie's Rod and Gun Club." An arrow pointed the way into the woods.

Sam shot his brother a _you're kidding me_ look. "No," he said flatly.

"You said I should ask for directions," Dean said with a shrug. He maneuvered the car off the main road.

"Yeah, but…a gun club?"

Dean grinned. "Watch and learn, little brother. Watch and learn."

**oooOOOooo**

The clubhouse was an old log cabin with no windows. None that Sam could see, anyway. He cringed inwardly as he followed Dean up the walk to the front door, a feeling of dread nestled in his stomach. Dean didn't seem bothered at all and, for a moment, Sam wondered if his feelings were simply nerves or something more.

Dean leaped over the three steps, directly onto the porch, and paused by the door, waiting for Sam. "You coming?"

Sam glanced behind at the expanse of trees that spread out in all directions. "Yeah," he answered finally, and stepped onto the porch.

The air inside the cabin hung heavy with smoke, and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust. To the right was a billiard table; that got a grin out of Dean. In the back right corner was a bar. To the left there was also a foosball table, a small living room set-up with a fireplace, and around that, what Sam could only describe as a trophy wall. Taxidermied wildlife covered the wall and a few shelves: fish, deer, bear, wildcats. There was even a tableau of a bobcat snarling at a snake.

A backhanded whack on his arm got his attention, and he turned to his brother, noting that Dean was looking at the same thing.

"Imagine what it would look like if we had one of those walls."

Sam grinned and followed Dean as he stepped farther into the room.

"Can I help you boys?" A large man in a quilted flannel shirt stepped from behind the bar.

Dean spoke before Sam could even open his mouth. "Yeah, we're, ah…" He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. "…we're kinda lost. Saw your sign. Thought maybe you could help us out."

"Where you headed?"

"Well, now, the truth is, we don't really know. See, my brother and I are here on vacation. You know, get away from it all. Do some fishing, some hunting…"

"You boys hunt?"

Dean pulled a face. "Oh, yeah. All the time."

Sam inconspicuously elbowed his brother. Dean was pouring it on a little thick.

The man's round face broke into a smile. "Well, then you're in the right place." He held out a hand. "Name's Ernie."

Dean shook the proffered hand. "Hi, Ernie. I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sam."

Sam accepted the hand as well. "Hi."

"Grab a seat, boys." Ernie hitched a thumb toward the bar. "Let's see if we can get you on the right track."

Dean looked back over his shoulder and waggled his eyebrows. And Sam felt his stomach sink a little lower. It was going to be a long night.

**oooOOOooo**

Two hours later, Sam was nursing his second beer and desperately trying to tune out his brother's voice. There were about fourteen guys in the place, and they were all crowded around the bar, listening to Dean spin tales of past hunts. And they were all true…except for _what_ they hunted. Now it was bears and wildcats and alligators. It bothered him the way his brother was trivializing what they did. Dean wouldn't see it that way, though, so Sam just kept his mouth shut.

"…Sammy?"

Head snapping up at the sound of his name, Sam focused on his brother. "What?"

Dean smiled, amused. "You with me there, Sam?" His smile faded a little when Sam didn't return it. "Ah, what was it we hunted in Nebraska?"

Sam glared at him. "I don't remember."

Dean got the hint. "Right. Well, must not have been that exciting." That got a round of laughs as he turned back to the group. "Anyway, enough about me. That's some trophy wall you got there." Dean glanced over his shoulder and nodded appreciatively. "Now, tell me about the ones that got away."

And suddenly Sam realized what his brother was doing. As the men in the group exchanged uncertain glances, Sam smiled into his beer and waited. There was only one thing they could say that could possibly top Dean's stories. He didn't have to wait long.

"You ever heard of the Jersey Devil?"

Dean scoffed good-naturedly. "Oh, come on, Pete. If you're gonna spin a tale, the least you could do is make it believable."

The very air in the cabin quickly changed. The men sobered, shifting in their places. Some of them went back to playing pool or watching TV, like the subject was just too much. Dean glanced at the faces around him, and Sam sat on the edge of his chair, primed, just in case.

Dean offered a nervous smile. "What? You're not telling me you—. That's just a myth, right?"

Ernie set another beer bottle in front of Dean, adding to the already impressive collection. "Most folk think so," he said.

Dean studied him a moment. "But you don't."

"Son, I've lived here all my life, seen a lot of strange things…"

"You've _seen_ it?"

It was Ernie's turn to study Dean, then Sam, trying to figure them out. "Maybe. I'm not sure. But I heard it. We all have."

"You've heard it?" Sam leaned forward, unable to keep out of the conversation any longer.

Ernie nodded.

"How do you know it was…_it_?" Dean asked.

"It screams." This from Pete, who seemed to have turned a shade paler. "Like a woman being murdered. Makes your blood run cold."

"It's a sound you never forget," Ernie added, and there were nods of agreement around the bar.

Dean spared a moment to exchange a quick look with Sam. Then he was back in the game. "So, how come this thing isn't decorating your wall?"

"You can't kill it," said a man to Dean's right.

"What, just because it's some kind of legend?"

"No," Ernie clarified, "because it _can't_ be killed."

Dean gave a short, scoffing laugh and lifted his beer. "We could kill it." He nodded back at Sam before taking a long drink.

There was tense silence, once again putting Sam on edge. Then the room filled with raucous laughter. Someone pounded Dean on the back, practically making him spew beer across the bar. Sam couldn't help but smile, and not just from the release of tension.

Ernie finally collected himself enough to say, "Son, I think you've had too much to drink."

"Seriously," Dean insisted after wiping the back of his arm across his mouth. "I'm one hell of a shot. And Sam here is almost as good."

Sam didn't miss the "almost," and couldn't quite keep his eyebrows from climbing a notch.

One of the men slapped his hand down on the bar. When he pulled it away, there was a twenty-dollar bill in its place. "Put your money where your mouth is, boy."

"Now, Charlie," Ernie admonished half-heartedly, pronouncing the name "Cha-lee."

Sam smelled a hustle. Little did they realize who was hustling whom.

Dean slipped from the bar stool and would have kept right on going to the floor if someone hadn't grabbed him. Sam jumped to his feet, not entirely certain how much of this was acting. Dean had consumed an awful lot of beer. But feint or not, it had the right affect: more bills were added to the bar.

Sam wanted desperately to get to his brother, but there was no way to reach him. Dean was now surrounded again, and the crowd was moving him toward a side door and out into the night.

"He as good as he says he is?"

Sam turned his head, surprised to find Ernie still behind the bar. He returned his gaze to the retreating crowd and, after a moment, he nodded. "Yes, he is…usually."

Ernie tossed his own bet into the pile before gathering up the money and stuffing it into his pocket. "That's just what I wanted to hear." He headed outside.

Sam stood in the empty clubhouse—even the guys who had been playing pool and watching TV had gone—and listened to the shouts and laughter that drifted back in through the open door. He really hoped Dean knew what he was doing.

With a sigh, he headed out after his brother.

**oooOOOooo**

By the time Sam met up with the crowd, Dean already had a shotgun in his hands. It was dark now, but the floodlights on the back of the cabin illuminated the red dot targets attached to posts about ninety feet away. A turkey shoot.

Pete and several others emerged from another door at the back of the cabin, each carrying more shotguns. They handed them out and took their places. Someone handed Dean four shells, twelve-gauge, and moved down the line to divvy up the rest.

Sam made his way to his brother's side. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Piece of cake," Dean told him, loading his shotgun.

Sam gave a cynical laugh. "When you're sober."

"Details, details," he responded, and primed the weapon.

"All right, now," Ernie called so all eight competitors could hear. "Four shots. Best out of four. Fire one round, and we'll replace the targets." He looked at Dean. "You're up, son."

Sam stepped back, heard his brother call, "Clear!" then the first round was fired. The game had begun.

Sam was content to simply stand back and watch his brother in action, but somewhere along the way he was designated "runner." He didn't relish the thought of crossing the paths of seven strangers armed with shotguns, but one look at Dean quelled his fears. Despite having overindulged, Dean was alert and aware, and he offered Sam a nod of assurance. It didn't take long to hang up the new targets, and when he returned, Ernie handed him the next batch. Dean called off the next round.

By the end of the fourth round, it was obvious to Sam that even inebriated, Dean was the indisputable winner. He had nailed the bull's-eye every time. Sam couldn't help a small smile of pride. He would never admit it to Dean, but his brother truly was the better marksman, probably as good as their dad, if not better.

It didn't take Ernie much scrutiny to come to the same conclusion as Sam. He announced the victor, pounding Dean firmly on the back. Although there were some groans of disappointment, most of the reactions were positive.

Even more animated than before, the group headed back toward the lodge. Ernie lagged behind and, with the efficiency of a man who had been doing so for a long time, counted the wad of money he had stuffed into his pocket. He took the house cut and then handed the rest to Dean. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that, son?" he asked.

"My dad," Dean answered as he folded the bills without counting them and tucked the roll into his pocket. "He taught me everything I know about weapons." He smiled. "Marines."

Ernie nodded his approval and clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Come on inside, have another beer. On the house."

"Thanks, but, uh…" Dean snorted a laugh. "I think I'd better pass." At the proprietor's frown of disappointment, he added, "But I could sure use a good night's sleep. Know any place we could stay?"

Twenty minutes later, Sam was guiding his brother out the front door—five minutes for directions, fifteen minutes of handshakes, good-byes, and promises of a rematch.

"You get those directions?" Dean asked as they reached the Impala.

"Yep."

"Good." Dean tossed him the keys. "Think you'd better drive, bro."

Sam made the catch one-handed and grinned. "Dude, you expect to hunt this thing tomorrow?"

The passenger door opened with a creak. "Nope. I plan to sleep tomorrow while you do the research." Dean flashed Sam a grin before lowering himself into the car.

Sam shook his head as he slid behind the wheel. Dean was already snugged down in the seat, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed.

Sam's face broke into a devilish grin. _That's what you think, big brother._

**oooOOOooo**

Despite his thoughts of mischief the night before, Sam padded around the motel room, showered, and dressed without waking his gently snoring brother.

Ernie hadn't steered them wrong. The motel was nice, for being out in the middle of nowhere. Sam had to admit, he had not looked forward to this trip at all. When he thought of New Jersey, he thought more of the north, just outside New York, where it was cities and power plants and refineries. Not this. This was nearly a million acres of oaks, cedars and pines, rivers and lakes. It was beautiful, a tranquil background for what was lurking in the dark.

Not that he was completely sure what that was yet. Dean had come across several unexplained deaths and disappearances in the area, enough to convince Sam it was worth looking into. But was it supernatural? The locals certainly seemed to believe in the Jersey Devil.

Sam made a pot of coffee while the computer booted, then had time to pour himself a cup while he waited for the internet connection to complete. Dial-up. Geez. No wireless connection out here. Heck, the cell phones didn't even work. He lowered himself into the chair at the table below the room's solitary window and sipped the hot brew, wondering absently why the aroma hadn't drawn Dean from his sleep.

The connection finally completed, and Sam set his coffee aside and went to work.

**oooOOOooo**

It felt like someone was squeezing his head. A moan escaped his lips before he could stop it, and that set off a jackhammer inside his skull. Dean wrapped his pillow around his head, but not before he caught the scent of brewed coffee. Normally, he would have enjoyed the smell, but right now it was making his already queasy stomach churn. He groaned, and this time he didn't care.

"Hey," he heard Sam's way-too-cheerful voice say. "It's about time you woke up."

"Who said I was awake?" he managed to croak.

His brother laughed. "Come on. Information and coffee."

Dean burrowed deeper into the bedclothes. The mere thought of putting anything in his stomach was enough to make him want to hurl. Something whacked his foot, which he belatedly realized was sticking out of the covers at the base of the bed.

"Dean, you should have something. It'll help."

Dean uncurled and rolled onto his back with a sigh. When he finally managed to pry his eyes open and focus, he saw Sam standing at the base of the bed, an amused smile on his face. "You're enjoying this way too much," he accused.

"Hey, man, you're the one who decided to drink twelve beers last night."

"I didn't _decide_. It just happened. And it was thirteen."

Sam paused in filling a cup with coffee. "You kept count?"

Slowly pushing himself up to sitting, Dean grinned. "I know my limits."

Sam offered him coffee along with the cynical look. "Right. Well, thirteen seems to be a popular number around here."

"Whatcha got?" Dean swung his legs off the side of the bed, then regretted moving so fast. He sat still for a moment, blinking away the vertigo. Luckily, it didn't seem that Sam had noticed as he headed back to the computer.

"Thirteenth child," he said, lowering himself into the chair. "A Mrs. Leeds found out she was pregnant with her thirteenth child and screamed, 'I hope it's a devil.' She got her wish. At least, that's one of the stories. There's also one that says a young girl fell in love with a British soldier during the Revolutionary War, so the people of Leeds Point cursed her, and another about a Mrs. Shrouds who said if she ever had another child, she hoped it was a devil. But there is a name in common. Leeds. Some stories say it was Mrs. Leeds who gave birth to the Jersey Devil in Estelville, New Jersey. Some say it was Mrs. Shrouds in Leeds Point. Either way, it's a start."

Dean sipped his coffee and winced, then frowned at his brother. "You put sugar in this?"

"Just drink it." He brought up another screen. "According to this one website, the Shrouds' house is still standing. It's off Route 561. We could check it out."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean stood, swayed a bit.

"There's also a…club."

"Thanks, Sam, but I think I've had enough to drink."

"Not that kind of club, Dean. A…" Sam searched for the right words, then shrugged. "A fan club."

Dean stopped en route to the bathroom and turned back to his brother. "Come again?"

Sam shrugged. "I thought we could check them out, too. They probably have more information than anyone." He grinned, sheepish.

Dean stared at him a moment. The way he felt, the last thing he wanted to do was deal with a bunch of Jersey Devil fanatics. Sam was watching him, waiting, eyebrows raised. Dean waved him off and continued toward the bathroom. "Knock yourself out, Sammy." He didn't turn back, but he could just imagine the look on his brother's face, and it was enough to make him smile.

**oooOOOooo**

By the time Dean emerged from the bathroom, Sam was gone. Dean shook his head. Jersey Devil fans. And he wasn't talking the hockey team. What next? He hadn't really considered the fact that they might run into some resistance when it came to killing the thing. Like killing Bigfoot or Nessie, he thought as he poured himself another cup of coffee: black, no sugar this time. The shower had helped, and as much as he hated to admit it, the earlier coffee Doctor Sam had prescribed had done the trick as far as the nausea was concerned.

Dean settled in the chair before the computer and ran a finger over the touch pad. The screen came to life, giving him a view of what his brother had been reading earlier: "The Jersey Devil: Fact or Fiction." He scanned the article, noting the names of some very prominent witnesses. Commodore Stephen Decatur, a naval hero, had shot the thing with a cannonball and claimed it was unaffected. Well, that made sense. They'd need silver bullets for this one. And chopping off its head wouldn't hurt, either.

Dean hit the "back" button and waited…and waited. Finally, the Google results displayed. There were thousands of them. Great. He chose what looked like an interesting link, then sat back in the chair. Dial-up sucked.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean started when the door opened. "Back so soon?" he asked as Sam stepped into the room.

Sam's eyebrows disappeared under his hair. "It's been like four hours, dude."

Dean stretched. "Really?" He glanced at his wrist, then realized his watch was still on the nightstand between the beds. "My how time flies…"

"Find anything?" Sam set a brown paper bag on the table behind the computer.

"Found lots of stuff. But most of these sites have the same information. Whether any of it will be useful, well…" He trailed off, the aroma of Chinese food making his stomach rumble. "How about you?"

Sam pulled out the other chair and sat at the table, pushing the computer back to the wall. "Yeah, actually."

Dean didn't miss the touch of red that colored Sam's cheeks. "I see," he said knowingly.

Sam fidgeted, annoyance touching his words. "No, you don't 'see,' Dean. It wasn't like that. She was just…very helpful."

"Uh-huh. And cute…"

A smile. Hesitant, but there. Finally, Sam shrugged.

Dean gave him a playful punch in the arm. "You're two-for-oh this trip, bro."

"_Anyway_, she gave me better directions to the Shrouds house."

Dean nodded, picked up the bag of Chinese food, and peeked inside. He glanced up at Sam without lifting his head. "One quart?"

The blush crept back again. "I, uh, ate already."

Dean raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. He pulled the carton from the bag and grabbed a pair of chopsticks. "And…"

Sam sighed. "Dean, I told you, it was nothing. We just went out and—"

"Sam. Jersey Devil," Dean chided, hiding a smile behind a mouthful of lo mein.

Sam looked abashed, clearing his throat before he continued. "Right. Um…I showed her those pictures I found on the internet, the ones of the dead guys. She said they were a hoax, but apparently there have been several disappearances each year, all around this time of year. They've never found any bodies, though. She said the devil has never killed anyone. It feeds on small animals. She said…it's a harbinger."

Dean looked up at the sudden change in his brother's voice. Sam wasn't looking at him anymore, his gaze unfocused. "Sam?"

Sam blinked, his eyes meeting Dean's. "It's been seen before times of great strife. The Revolutionary War, The War of 1812, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam." He leaned forward. "Dean, it was seen in 1983…and just last year."

Dean felt something twist inside, but he kept his face neutral. He knew where Sam was going with this, and as much as he wanted to deny it, the kid's intuitions were usually frighteningly on the mark. He shrugged with his expression. "There's always a war somewhere, Sam. Heck, we're at war now in Iraq—"

"Then why isn't it seen all the time, Dean?" Sam looked at him pleadingly, as if he needed Dean to tell him he was wrong.

Dean couldn't.

"What if it's more? What if there's something coming? A war of a different type?"

Dean set aside his meal, no longer hungry. He needed to stop this speculation now and get to the matter at hand. "Sam, we can sit here and talk _Something Wicked This Way Comes_, or we can do something about it." He held Sam's gaze with a hard look. There was no anger in it, only determination.

It worked. Sam swallowed, nodded.

Dean stood, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's go."

**oooOOOooo**

Even with the directions they had, the house was not easy to find. The overgrowth of trees, grass, and shrubs made it easy to miss.

The sun was setting as they trekked over the uneven ground, Sam using his machete to cut the tangle of thorny bushes from their path. He had taken the lead, which was not something he did often. Dean usually took point; it was simply an unspoken rule between them. But today… Maybe he thought Sam needed to work off some restless energy by hacking away at brambles.

"Want me to take over?" Dean asked, a few steps behind.

A small smile touched Sam's lips. His brother always seemed to know what he was thinking. "I'm okay."

"Well, let me know when you want a break."

Sam glanced over his shoulder, saw Dean fiddling with the EMF meter. "Anything?"

Dean shrugged. "Nah…nothing." He stopped walking and glanced around. "I thought this place wasn't far from the road."

"According to Cat, it should be—"

"Cat?" Dean asked with one of _those_ grins, then made a purring growl sound.

"Dean…" Sam warned, then stopped, his eyes catching something ahead of them. They were on a steady incline that peaked about a hundred yards ahead. Trees dotted the top of the hill, and…something else. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper Cat had given him. The black-and-white picture was a few years old, but it seemed to match. Moving to his right, Sam sought a better angle. Within moments, he had it. The dark shape of a dilapidated house came into view. He glanced back at his brother.

Dean wasn't there. The uneasiness Sam had felt outside the gun club returned with a vengeance.

"Dean?" he called, turning in a frantic search.

"Here."

Sam heard his brother almost the instant he saw him, several feet to the right, crouched in the tall grass. With an inaudible sigh of relief, Sam joined him, looking down at a path worn into the rugged terrain.

"Someone's been coming out here on a regular basis," Dean noted.

"Fan club?"

"Maybe."

Sam knew that tone. "You think this is all a hoax."

Dean shrugged, pushed off his knees and stood. He stepped onto the path and took up the lead. "Let's find out."

The rest of the way was much easier on the path. Sam made a mental note that they should come back when there was more daylight and see where the path led in the other direction. But right now his focus was on the house atop the hill. It was like something out of a horror movie. He knew Dean was thinking the same thing when his brother glanced back and grinned. This was right up his alley.

The grade became steeper, but the path was almost stair-like, allowing them to move swiftly. There was an eerie stillness to the area: plenty of insects to herald the evening, but no swarms of birds flying from tree to tree as they searched for a place to nestle for the night. Sam also found it odd that they hadn't disturbed even one rabbit on their journey. He didn't like this place. Not one bit. They crested the hill, and it didn't get much better.

The back of the house and one side were completely obscured by trees and scrub brush, but the front and other side were fully visible. Slats were missing from the roof. A window with a wooden shutter stood open on the side, and Dean crept over to take a look. He pulled out his flashlight and sent the beam traveling over the interior.

"You realize this place is, like, three hundred years old?" he said, his eyes narrowing at something the light caught.

"Yeah. I'm amazed it's still standing." Sam stepped closer to the window, getting his first look inside. The room—a living room, he guessed—had a loft and a huge stone fireplace that took up most of the far wall. No furniture remained. The rungs on the ladder to the loft were all broken, and there was some graffiti on the walls. A doorway at the back led to another room. Sam glanced at his brother.

"Come on," Dean said in a hushed voice, and made his way around to the front.

Sam followed, pulling out his own flashlight.

The front door was intact, a wooden latch holding it in place. A sign beside the frame warned: DANGER. DO NOT ENTER.

Dean shrugged. "Never stopped us before." He reached for the latch, but paused.

"What?"

"This place has been fixed recently."

Sam gave him, then the house, a dubious look. "How can you tell?"

Dean sidestepped, running a hand over the slats under the sign. "These boards were nailed back into place. See?" He pointed. "They used old nails here, but here…"

"New nails." Sam nodded. "Well, it _is_ a historic building."

"Yeah, and they've kept it up so beautifully." Dean stepped back to the door and lifted the latch. It swung inward with only the smallest of squeals. Dean took a step forward, but Sam put out an arm to hold him back.

"Don't you think it's strange we haven't spooked anything by being here? There should be birds all over this place. I mean, look. There aren't even any bird droppings on the floor, no nests, nothing."

Dean stepped inside anyway with a murmured, "That _is_ weird."

Sam followed, hearing the creak of the boards beneath their feet. His uneasiness intensified, the hairs on his arms rising as he shivered. The beam of light played over the dusty floor. Cobwebs dangled from every corner and from the beams that supported the loft. There were many footprints in the dust, too many to be of any real use. And they were all human. No hoofprints as the legend suggested.

Drawing his beam along the base of the wall, Sam sighed. "I don't know, Dean. Maybe this is—" He stopped, swept the light back.

"Sam?" Dean was at his side in an instant.

"I…I thought I saw—"

The shrill scream was almost deafening.

Sam winced, ducking his head as he spun toward the door. The words he'd heard in the gun club echoed in his head. _It screams. Like a woman being murdered_. It did sound like a woman's scream, although Sam doubted anything human could be that shrill. His eyes searched for Dean, found his brother a few paces away, gun already in his hand. The scream came again, too close. Sam held his machete in a white-knuckled grip as he followed Dean out the door.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon. To the west, the remnants of pink and purple clouds made the sky glow, but to the east darkness engulfed the woods and was fast approaching. They stood just outside the door, back to back.

Sam didn't actually see it; it was more of a sensation, one he recognized. The uneasiness had progressed to almost…dread. But before he could give it more than a moment's thought, the scream came again, so close Sam had to cover his ears.

"Where the hell is it?" Dean sounded worried. He didn't like fighting what he couldn't see. He moved in a slow circle, and Sam moved with him, covering his back.

They didn't see it, but they felt it. The heavy thump in the air, the rush of wind, warm and rank, was the only warning they had before a force blasted right between them, throwing the brothers to the ground. Sam threw out his right arm so he wouldn't land on the machete, but the impact with the hard-packed dirt knocked the wind out of him. He tried to call out to his brother, to make sure he was okay, but he couldn't draw enough breath to make a sound. Then he heard a curse from nearby, and Dean was at his side, tugging at his arm.

"Sam!" Dean's voice held urgency. "Come on, get up!"

The deep _thwump_ was back—or was that the blood pounding in his ears? With Dean's help, Sam managed to get his legs under him and push to his feet. Another displacement of air nearly knocked them both down again, and the screech that followed made Sam dizzy. Dean cursed again, forcing Sam to move. They practically slid down the hill, kicking up clouds of dirt and sending dislodged stones skittering down with them. It was like running on marbles. Sam hit the bottom hard, Dean's firm, steadying grip the only thing keeping him from landing on his face. Then Dean was behind him, pushing him forward.

"The path, Sam. Go, _go_!"

And Sam ran. He headed for the woods, for the road, the safety of the Impala. He could hear Dean's harsh breathing behind him, hear the pounding of his boots on the ground, and he could hear…_it_. It was after them. Behind them, no, over them, in front of them. He could hear it, sometimes smell it, but he couldn't _see_ it. It moved too fast. He ducked his head, feeling its presence, the beat of its wings, the heat of its breath.

Another scream. Sam gasped, his eardrums protesting the abuse. The _thwump_—the beatofits wings, Sam realized—came close again and he stumbled. So close to the woods, so close. He managed to keep from falling, but heard behind him the uneven steps, the grunt as a body hit the ground. Dean.

Sam skidded to a stop and turned, knowing instantly the dark spot on the path was his brother. "Dean!" He ran back, sliding to his brother's side, his heart lodged in his throat.

Dean coughed, sputtered dirt from his mouth. "I'm okay, just go."

Sam grabbed Dean's arm and pulled.

The attack came in an instant. Something slammed into Sam's shoulder. He would have fallen on top of Dean—except for the hold it had on him.

Then he felt the pain. It branched out from his shoulder, down his chest and left arm. He felt himself being lifted. The beat of its wings became more deliberate.

Sam reached up, grabbed the bony limb, felt the claws embedded in his skin. His weight was too much. Its grip slipped, tearing skin. Sam cried out, trying desperately to dislodge its hold.

Three shots rang out in succession, and Sam hit the ground on his knees.

"Sammy?!"

Sam reached out, grabbed a fistful of Dean's jacket. It grounded him, just knowing Dean was there. "You got it?" he asked, breathless.

"Yeah, but I think I just pissed it off." Dean wasted no time pulling him to his feet. "Move."

Sam pushed back the pain, ignored the wetness on his chest and back. He moved automatically, swallowing the nausea. Dean still had a grip on him, pushing him to keep going, tugging him this way and that. It grew very dark all of a sudden, and it took Sam too long to realize they had finally entered the woods. The thing screamed—it was _still_ there—and this time he could hear the anger.

Things were becoming hazy, sounds muted. He thought he heard Dean say something, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. He just knew he had to keep moving. His foot landed on something hard, and Dean steered him to the right. It wasn't until he heard Dean again—not so much the words as the tone—that Sam blinked to focus and realized they were on the road, the familiar outline of the Impala just visible in the dark.

Sam offered a small laugh of relief, but it sounded horribly giddy.

"Easy, Sammy, we're almost there."

Those words, spoken softly, penetrated the haze. Sam could hear the strain in his brother's voice, the breathlessness. Suddenly he realized how much of his weight Dean was supporting. Somewhere along the way, his good arm had been pulled across Dean's shoulders, and Dean's arm was around his waist. When had that happened? He knew then that the only thing keeping him on his feet was his brother.

With great effort, Sam managed to get his feet firmly beneath him and straighten up, easing Dean's burden. A wave of vertigo threatened to topple him, but he focused ahead on the car, willing himself to keep going. Not much farther.

Except the road kept stretching out before him. The more steps he took, the farther away his goal seemed. _Come on… _His eyes slid closed.

"Sam? Sam!"

The urgency brought him back, and he blinked several times to focus. He was leaning against the hood of the Impala. Dean stood before him in a stance that suggested he had dodged back to catch Sam if he toppled over. "What?"

"I think I lost you for a minute there," Dean said, backing toward the passenger door. "Just stay with me a little longer, Sam, okay?"

"'kay," was all he could manage.

The door creaked open, then Dean was back, guiding him to familiar comfort of vinyl seats. Sam heard himself groan.

"You're not gonna hurl, are you?" Dean asked, sounding annoyed. "'Cause you're already bleeding on the upholstery."

Sam rolled his head along the back of the seat to look at his brother, leaning over him in the doorway, and knew instantly the biting comment was meant to mask concern. As if he knew exactly what Sam was thinking, Dean tousled his hair before pulling out of the car.

That's when they heard it.

"Dean," Sam warned, but the door slammed closed. He couldn't even breathe as he waited for the driver's side to open. "Dean?"

The door swung open with such force, it startled Sam. Dean practically leaped inside and slammed it behind him. "It's determined, I'll give it that," he growled as he dug frantically for the keys. With a jangle, they broke free of his pocket. He jammed home the ignition key and started the car, threw it into gear, and sped out onto the highway, both hands gripping the wheel.

Sam sighed, sinking further down in the seat.

"Still with me, Sammy?"

Sam nodded. "Just…dizzy."

"We'll be back at the motel in no time, and I'll—"

It landed on the roof of the car with a resounding _ka-thump_.

"Son of a—" Dean swerved, trying to lose it, but the thing hung on.

Sam looked up out the window. At the edge of the roof, curled around the metal, were three sharp claws. He pushed himself up in the seat and leaned away from the glass. "Uh, Dean…?"

"I know, I know!" He ducked to look up through the windshield. "I swear, if this thing scratches my car—"

"Dean!" Sam yelled, grabbing the dashboard as he caught the flash of white tail dart out in front of the car.

Dean's gaze snapped back to the road. With a curse, he threw an arm across Sam's chest and jammed on the brakes. There was a thump against the bumper as the Impala caught the hindquarters of the deer before jerking to a stop and stalling. Then something hit the hood, bounced off, and disappeared below the grill.

It was eerily silent. Sam hardly dared breathe as he cast a sidelong glance at his brother, who hadn't moved. Dean's arm was still across Sam's chest, his left hand holding the steering wheel with a straight-armed grip. Outside the car, smoke from burnt rubber drifted up before the headlights, the smell of it turning Sam's already queasy stomach.

"You okay?"

The question sounded too loud, yet Dean's voice was almost hoarse. Sam nodded.

"Sam?"

He realized Dean's eyes had never left the road—he knew it was still out there—so he hadn't seen the nod. "Yeah," Sam replied. "You think—?" He cut himself off as something rose in the smoke. Sam gasped, but that was all he could manage before his lungs stopped working.

It moved slowly, coming into view above the hood. Strangely, it looked like a demonic horse, although its head was about the size of a large dog's, and with the height of the car for comparison, it only stood about four-and-a-half-feet tall. It might have been harmless looking if not for the glowing red eyes…or until it hissed at them, revealing sharp teeth with upper and lower extended fangs. Its body seemed to be covered with hair, but it was hard to tell.

One clawed hand settled on the hood, then the other. The claws on its left "hand" were covered with blood. Sam's blood. It looked at them through the glass, turning its head as if studying them with first one eye, then the other. Then its gaze settled on Sam.

Sam swallowed against a dry throat and inadvertently pushed back in the seat as it leaned closer. Dean's hand remained where it was, centered on Sam's chest, possessive. Protective. Sam tore his gaze away from the creature to steal a glance at his brother. Dean glared at the thing, his face set, his mouth a thin line. The muscles of his jaw flexed from tautness. The message was clear: _You can't have him_.

And not for the first time, Sam thanked God for his brother.

The creature's gaze lowered to Dean's shielding hand, then followed his arm until it locked with Dean's equally unfaltering gaze. Its eyes narrowed to thin red slits. It was angry. Sam didn't just know it; he could _feel_ it. He didn't doubt it knew Dean was the one who had shot it. There was something in its eyes that told of intelligence. It wasn't acting on instinct; it had the power to reason. And that made it very, very dangerous.

It shrieked.

Dean barely blinked. And Sam swore he saw what could pass for a smile on its face before its head jerked to the right.

The deer, terrified by the creature's cry, scrambled up onto its three good legs and took off into the woods. The Jersey Devil took off after it, pterodactyl wings lifting it off the ground with one beat. Sam got a quick look at a dragon-like tail, then it was gone.

Once again, everything was silent. Sam drew in a ragged breath and looked at his brother. Dean was looking out the window at the woods where the thing had disappeared. His hand fell away from Sam's chest as he turned forward and gripped the key in the ignition. "You know what?" he said finally.

"What?"

"Something tells me this isn't a hoax."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The Devil Made Me Do It

By AJ Wesley

_This story first appeared in the zine "Blood Brothers"_

**Chapter 2**

By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the motel, Sam was unconscious, and Dean was scared. He parked in the space right in front of their room, and with a quick glance at his brother, hurried to unlock the room door. He propped it open with the trashcan, then ran back to get Sam.

Dean made sure there were no prying eyes before pulling his brother—all six-foot-four of him—off the front seat. He didn't even spare a glance at the roof of the Impala. She would have to wait. With a deep breath and a grunt of exertion, he bent forward and let Sam's weight drop him over his shoulder. With effort, Dean stood up straight and staggered toward the room.

"This was a hell of a lot easier when you were a scrawny kid, Sammy," he complained.

It really wasn't. It never would be.

As carefully as possible, he got Sam onto the farther of the two beds. The jostling roused him, and with a little coaxing, Dean sat him up long enough to strip off his hoodie and flannel shirt. The t-shirt he ripped—it was no good anyway—so he wouldn't have to pull it over Sam's head. Dean gently removed the fabric from around the wound and cringed. Damn. That had to hurt.

Somewhere in that college-educated brain, Sam must have realized Dean had finished removing his shirt. He shivered, his body listing to one side in a slow motion topple to the bed.

Dean caught him. "Whoa, there, little brother. I need to get you cleaned up. Come on. Bathroom."

Sam offered a petulant protest, but allowed Dean to lift him to his feet. He barely made it to the bathroom before his legs gave out again. Dean sat him down on the closed toilet seat, then balled up a towel and placed it between the wall and Sam's head: makeshift pillow. Satisfied, Dean went to retrieve their first-aid supplies. He was back in less than a minute. Sam hadn't moved.

First things first. Dean pulled a bottle of holy water from the bag and found himself holding his breath as he sprinkled it on the wound. Nothing happened. No hiss, no fizz. With a sigh of relief and a silent "thank you," Dean went to work.

It took him nearly an hour to get Sam and the wounds cleaned up. Puncture wounds were not easy, and Dean was grateful Sam was out for it. Even so, his brother's brow creased and he whimpered softly once or twice, raising a listless hand as if to say, _Leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep_. Once the shoulder was cleaned, Dean realized the damage wasn't as bad as he had originally thought. The skin was actually more sliced than torn, which made stitching it a heck of a lot easier.

He was on the last few stitches when his brother sighed, then moved, tightening the muscles and skin across his neck and shoulders. "Ow," he said.

"Hey, don't blame me," Dean scolded lightly, his attention never leaving his work. "You're the one with the bad timing."

"What happened?" Sam asked groggily.

"Oh, not much. Running for our lives, Jersey Devil, sharp claws. Ring any bells?"

Sam's eyes widened, and he turned his head to look at his shoulder. The movement made him wince.

"Nice move, genius." Dean shook his head. "Hold still and let me finish."

"It was real."

"Ya think?" Dean tied off the last stitch. "Good news is, the wound didn't react to holy water. I don't think this thing is demonic. Despite the glowy-eye thing."

"Cursed, maybe?" Sam offered. He was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Yeah, maybe." Dean slathered antiseptic cream over the wounds and then covered them, his bandaging skills as good as that of any doctor. "All right. Straight to bed, young man."

Sam gave him a look but didn't argue. He stood up a little too fast and grabbed the wall for support. Dean let him move on his own but stayed close, just in case. Sam made it to the bed and sat on the edge, but he didn't lie down. He was staring at something only he could see.

"I felt it, Dean."

Sitting on his own bed directly across from his brother, Dean pointed at Sam's bandage. "Yeah, I bet."

"No, I mean…in my head."

Dean snorted a laugh, but his smile faded quickly at the haunted look on his brother's face. "You're kidding me, right?" Sam's eyes met his; he wasn't kidding. "What, you mean like telepathy? You could read its mind?"

Sam shook his head minutely. "No, not like that. I just…more like empathy, I guess. It was more feeling than thought. But it was angry, Dean."

"No, really?"

Sam sighed, frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair. Agitation rang in his voice, the words tumbling from his mouth. "No, man, I'm telling you—"

Dean held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa, whoa, Sammy, take it easy. I believe you, okay? But let's…let's talk about this later." He slipped off the bed but remained low, keeping his brother at the same level. He tugged the covers back and coaxed Sam to lie down. "You lost a lot of blood, kiddo. How about you get some rest?"

Sam nodded.

Once his brother was settled, Dean made a decision. "Hey, uh…you be okay if I head over to Ernie's?"

Sam's eyes opened, his brow creased in worry.

"I'll be fine," Dean assured him. "I just want to ask those guys a couple more questions." At Sam's continued stare, he added, "No soloing, I promise."

Sam's eyes slid shut and he nodded, but his quiet call stopped his brother at the door. "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

Sam was losing the battle to stay awake, his voice so soft, Dean had to strain to hear. "I think it was protecting something."

Dean thought back on the timing of the attack. They were inside the cabin. Sam had seen…something. It made sense.

Yeah, he definitely had questions that needed answering.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean made the thirty-mile drive in less than twenty-five minutes, his grip tight on the wheel, his eyes constantly scanning the road that was visible in the headlights. It was still out there somewhere.

He pulled into the parking lot of the clubhouse and grabbed the sawed-off shotgun from the passenger seat. His knife, normally discreetly hidden, hung from his belt. He wasn't taking any chances. Dean climbed the stairs, swung the muzzle down at the floor, and stepped inside. Several men turned to glance his way, then went back to what they were doing, Dean's appearance nothing unusual in their eyes.

"Dean!" Ernie waved at him from the bar.

Dean slipped through the crowd, squeezed into an empty space between two stools. "How's it goin', Ernie?"

"Well, look at you." The owner gave him the once-over. "You end up with a trophy for all that aggravation?"

Dean looked down, taking in his dirt-smeared shirt and jeans. He'd been so concerned about Sam, he'd forgotten his face-plant on the path. He shrugged. "Nope. You were right. Bullets don't work. I shot the thing three times and it didn't do squat."

The guys within earshot stopped talking and stared at Dean. Ernie regarded him with raised eyebrows for a moment, then laughed as if he'd just gotten the joke. "That's good. That's real good. You had me goin' for a second there."

Several others joined in the laughter, but Dean's face remained serious as he stared back at the bartender.

Ernie stopped laughing. "You ain't kiddin'."

"No, I'm not. I need to know where it hides during the day. The cabin, maybe?"

Someone snorted a laugh beside him. "That's the trouble with you outsiders." He set down his beer and looked up at Dean. Pete. "You come in here with your guns and your attitudes, and you think you can take on our legend. You know how many people have died tryin'?"

"Pete," Ernie admonished.

"No, Pete." Dean shifted, leaning an elbow on the bar and looking down at the drunken hunter. "How many?"

"Look, Dean," Ernie said calmly, trying to keep the peace, "people get lost in these woods all the time. There's no proof any of them have fallen victim to the Jersey Devil. Whatever it was you shot—"

"I shot the Jersey Devil, Ernie, because it tried to take off with my brother. And he's got the claw marks to prove it." Ernie regarded him, eyebrows drawn. Dean knew he wasn't buying it. "Where does that path lead? The one that goes to the cabin. Where's the other end go?"

"It winds through the woods, out to the street. Why?" Ernie sounded annoyed now.

Pete cackled into his beer. "I'd be more concerned about your brother if I was you."

Dean's head snapped toward the man. "What do you mean?"

A shrug. "You said it yourself. He's been marked. Once ole JD's got the scent, he don't give up." Pete looked up at Dean with bloodshot eyes. "Your brother's a dead man." Then he laughed.

Dean's chest tightened. He glanced at Ernie, whose expression did nothing to dismiss his fears. He backed away from the bar, feeling the sudden need to check on Sam. Maybe it was a joke, but he wasn't about to take that chance.

Dean bolted for the door, hearing Pete's laughter follow him out into the night.

**oooOOOooo**

Sam opened his eyes but remained still, listening. He wasn't sure what had dragged him out of his sleep, but…

Hungry. He was hungry.

Wincing every inch of the way, Sam rolled onto his back and glanced at the other bed. Dean wasn't back yet. He checked the clock on the nightstand between the beds and discovered he'd only been asleep for a half an hour. Except now he'd never get back to sleep, not with Dean out there. Sam sighed, reaching over with his good arm to grab the remote from beside the clock. He flicked on the TV and surfed the channels.

The hunger hit him again, but there was a bad taste in his mouth and his stomach was still a little queasy. There was nothing to eat in the room anyway, and if he wasn't here when Dean got back, he was sure his brother would panic. Not that he thought he even had the strength for a trip to the vending machine—

Sam's head whipped to the side, earning him another spike of pain. He put the television on mute and listened, certain he had heard something. Something that sounded an awful lot like the rattling of a doorknob. Not loud or forceful, more like someone testing to see if the door was locked. Someone…or some_thing_.

Fear settled in his stomach. Slowly, Sam maneuvered out of bed and crept over to his bag on the chair. He withdrew his curved blade and turned toward the door, drawing a deep breath. He took a few steps, then stopped, hearing what sounded like scraping along the windowsill. The breath shuddered from his lungs. Grip tight on the knife hilt, Sam flattened himself against the wall between the door and window and used the blade to move the curtain just enough to see outside.

Nothing.

Holding his breath, Sam waited. Listened.

The doorknob rattled again. This time he saw it move.

He turned, backed slowly away, his weapon held protectively out in front of him. A dull throb behind his eyes blossomed into a full-blown headache as a myriad of emotions assaulted him: Hunger. Frustration. Anger. Pain. It twisted his stomach into knots. Sam winced, then gasped as he backed into the wall just beyond his bed. The pain in his head intensified until everything went white.

Then black.

Then nothing.

"Sam!"

Sam blinked. When he could finally focus, he saw Dean's face before him, eyes searching, brows drawn in concern.

"Sam?" Less urgency now, more worry. "You wanna tell me what you're doing on the floor?"

"I…I heard…something."

"Yeah, I guess so," his brother said. "You nearly took my head off."

Sam glanced at his right hand, saw the blade still held in a death grip. Dean had a firm hold on his wrist, keeping the knife at bay, and Sam suddenly realized he was still fighting the restraint. It took real effort to relax and uncurl his fingers.

Dean slipped the weapon from Sam's grasp and set it aside. "Come on." He gave Sam a hand up off the floor and guided him back to his bed.

"I think it was here." Sam slid under the covers, trying not to jar his shoulder. He looked up at Dean, half expecting some kind of denial. There was none.

"Go back to sleep, Sam," his brother said. "I'm not going anywhere."

That was a promise Sam could live with—literally.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean heard the pops and cracks as he stretched. He rolled his head, trying to loosen the tension in his neck. What he wouldn't give for a massage. Cassie always gave him the best back rubs…

He blinked his eyes wide, determined not to fall asleep again. He'd stayed awake until he was sure Sam was out, then he'd salted the window and door before hitting the sack himself. Now he could see the sunlight leaking through the edges of the curtains. Morning had arrived without incident. And tonight, Sam should be recovered enough to go hunting.

Dean slipped off the bed, stifling a yawn and scratching a particularly annoying itch. He'd slept in his clothes. Wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last. Besides, now he didn't have to take the time to dress before checking out his baby. She'd been hurt, too, but Dean did have his priorities. He glanced over at Number One. Sam's mouth hung open a little and he was snoring gently. Smiling, Dean quietly unlatched the door and went outside.

Squinting in the bright light, he stepped off the cement walk onto the gravel parking lot where the Impala sat waiting for him. Dean ran his hand lovingly along the passenger-side fender to the front door. As his eyes adjusted, the damage became clear. Dean swore.

The roof was dented where the thing had landed, and there were scratch marks where it had held on. Shaking his head, he turned to round the hood to the driver's side and saw that it was dented, too. The driver's side signal cover was cracked from the impact with the deer. There were more claw marks on the roof above his door. "Ol' JD" had a death wish. Deciding on his course of action, Dean headed back to the room.

His hand was on the doorknob when he saw it. Claw marks, just like those on his car, marred the windowsill. And below, in the small weed-infested flowerbed below the window, were two hoofprints.

Pain in his hand made him realize how tightly he was gripping the doorknob. Pete hadn't been kidding, and the memory of his laugh set fire to Dean's blood. The Jersey Devil had picked the wrong "outsiders" to mess with.

**oooOOOooo**

"You're gorgeous, you know that?"

Sam's brow furrowed even before he opened his eyes. "Dean?" he mumbled, certain he had just heard his brother's voice.

No answer.

Blinking into the dimness, Sam waited for his eyes to focus. He was alone in the room. But hadn't he just—?

"Does that feel good?"

What? Sam sat up, listening. Dean was outside.

"Oh, come on, baby. Work with me here." The words were softly spoken. Almost…something Sam shouldn't be listening to.

Sam threw the covers back and got out of bed. He felt a lot better. Not one hundred percent, but definitely better. He started for the door, pausing to look at the clock. It was past five in the afternoon. He'd practically slept the day away.

"That's it. Oh, yeah," Dean purred.

Sam opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot. The cool spring air brought gooseflesh to his skin, reminding him he was shirtless. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Dean staring at him, eyebrows quirked. He stared back. "What are you doing?"

"Compounding the scratches that thing put on my car," Dean answered matter-of-factly.

"You wanna keep in mind that there are other people at this motel?" Sam raised his eyebrows as if the meaning of what he was saying should be clear.

"What?"

Obviously, it wasn't. Sam shook his head. "Never mind." He started to close the door, but his brother's voice stopped him.

"Hey." Dean crossed to him. "How you feelin'?"

"Better."

"You up for the hunt? 'Cause we can—"

"I'm fine," Sam assured him. "Let's do this."

Dean nodded. "Good. Now get inside and get some clothes on, will ya?" Dean gave him a shove. "Remember, there are other people at this motel."

**oooOOOooo**

It was nearly seven before they pulled to the side of the road and parked. Dean had insisted on changing the bandages on Sam's shoulder before Sam dressed, and they'd grabbed a couple of hot dogs and drinks from the mom-and-pop store next to the motel. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, the stars just becoming visible in the twilight sky.

There was a Ford F-150 pickup parked on the same dirt pull-off, its bumper sticker announcing "Piney Power." Dean frowned, shaking his head. Just what they needed: other hunters in the mix. He hoped they weren't trigger-happy. He glanced over at his brother and saw from Sam's expression he was thinking the same thing. "Great."

Sam shrugged with one shoulder as he opened his door. "Lots of people come out here looking for the Jersey Devil, Dean."

Dean got out and met Sam at the trunk. "Yeah, but I get the feeling this isn't part of the fan club." He stuck the key in the lock and popped the lid.

Sam grabbed the chrome .45 and loaded a clip of silver bullets. Dean didn't miss his brother's wince when he used his left hand. He waited until Sam had tucked the weapon in his waistband before handing him a machete. Dean grabbed his own and threaded the sheath onto his belt. He stowed his pistol and slammed the trunk closed. "All right," he said on a breath, and led the way into the woods, his flashlight illuminating the path.

The three-quarter moon high above the trees filtered light down through the branches, giving them a good amount to see by. Unlike many of the forests they'd hiked through, this one was made up mostly of coniferous trees, their sparse branches allowing ample view of the sky. Dean moved cautiously, his senses tuned to the sounds around him, especially the ones that told him Sam was right behind him, watching his back. Not that he was the one who needed it. He hadn't told his brother what Pete had said about him being "a dead man," and he felt a twinge of guilt about that. But he needed at least one of them focused on the job at hand. Sam would concentrate on the job, and Dean would look after Sam.

"Dean."

Sam's whispered warning came an instant after he heard the noise himself. He stopped, listened, turning his head to try to make out where it was coming from. Voices, he decided. The hissing sounds of a whispered argument. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew they'd found their hunters.

Dean nodded to his brother, and Sam followed him off the path and into the brush. They knew how to move silently, years of training drilled into them by their father. Dean crept up behind a large pine and peered around the trunk at the group of men standing a few yards away, their flashlights making them easy to see.

"You heard him. He said bullets didn't do no good."

"Oh, come on, Charlie, you actually believe him?"

"Yeah, and you don't. That's why you're here."

"All right, all right, that's enough."

Dean recognized that last, calm voice of reason as Ernie. He couldn't quite make out the others, except that one must be _Chahlie_.

"You know how dangerous it is to hunt in these woods at night," Ernie continued. "Especially when we know those boys are probably out here. We don't need no accidents."

"And what if one of them shoots one of us?"

Dean finally recognized Pete's voice. At least he sounded sober. "Ain't gonna happen," he called, stepping out from behind the tree.

Three heads turned his way but, thankfully, no weapons. At least they were trained well enough in that area. All three men were armed with either a rifle or a shotgun, but they kept them aimed at the forest floor. Dean checked on Sam's whereabouts—discreetly—before moving toward the group. His brother fell into step behind him, then came up beside him when he stopped.

"You decide to join us?" Dean asked.

"Look," said Charlie, "we don't know what it was you shot at, but—"

"It was the Jersey Devil," Dean said calmly.

"Come on." Pete rolled his eyes. "You expect us to believe you not only spotted the Jersey Devil your first time out, but you shot it, too? Please."

"Pete," Ernie admonished, then turned to Dean. "Whatever's going on, we'll get to the bottom of it." He looked at Sam. "You okay, son?"

Sam's head bobbed. "Yeah. Thanks."

"What are you gonna do?" Charlie sneered. "Chop it into little pieces?" He pointed to Sam's machete.

"That's exactly what we're gonna do," Sam replied. "After I shoot it with this." He pulled the pistol from his waistband.

Pete laughed. "I thought you said bullets don't work."

Sam grinned. "Actually, he said that," he pointed at Dean, "but it's true."

"Regular bullets don't work," Dean clarified, "but consecrated silver ones should."

Charlie snorted a laugh. "We ain't huntin' no werewolf."

"Silver works on a lot more than werewolves, _Chah-lee_." Dean grinned.

"Where did you get silver bullets?" Ernie asked.

"We make 'em," Dean told him.

"Uh-huh." Ernie eyed Dean and Sam suspiciously. "What is it exactly you boys do?"

Dean shrugged. "We're hunters."

Ernie opened his mouth to ask another question, but it was cut off by a shrill scream. One Dean recognized. He yanked the gun from his waistband and moved closer to his brother.

Everything fell silent. The other hunters had their weapons raised, but they couldn't tell where the cry had come from. They waited, tensed, barely breathing in the unnerving quiet.

Dean heard the beat of wings only an instant before a dark shadow flew by, knocking him and Sam to the ground. It swooped again, sending the others scrambling for cover. Dean thought he saw a flicker of red eyes, but they were gone too fast for him to take aim.

It screamed again, louder this time. There was a loud _thud_, and a displacement of pine needles on the ground. Dean heard a low growl. The beam from someone's flashlight played across the area, but there was nothing there. Dean held his gun out in front of him, ready for the slightest movement.

His arm was batted aside; the gun went flying.

"Son of a—" The damn thing was freakin' _invisible_.

"Dean!" Sam rushed toward him. There was a whipping sound, and suddenly Sam was airborne.

Before Dean could even take a step, the attack came. Something slammed into his chest, propelling him backward, knocking the air from his lungs. He came to an abrupt stop against something solid, his back and head exploding in pain. Dean grit his teeth against the cry that forced its way out.

He hit the ground on his side, writhing as the impact jarred his abused body. Hearing the terrified cries of the other men, Dean tried to push himself up. Sharp pain spiked through his head and he collapsed back to the moist earth, his brother's name on his lips as the darkness took hold.

**oooOOOooo**

Sam crawled along on his hands and knees in a frantic search for the weapon he had dropped on impact. He knew it was nearby. He needed to find it and get back to Dean. The machete was too far out of reach, dropped when his feet had left the ground. He tried to ignore the brambles that were leaving tiny thorns imbedded in his fingers and palms. The gun was there somewhere. _Come on_.

His fingers brushed something cold and metal. With a sigh of relief, Sam pulled the .45 from the thicket. He was upright on his knees when the gun was knocked from his grasp by something he couldn't see. With a startled cry, Sam scrambled backward until he came up against a tree. He reached behind him, used the solid trunk to push himself to his feet.

Everything was quiet. He couldn't even hear the others anymore, and his stomach twisted into knots as he wondered what had happened to Dean. His eyes darted around the moonlit forest, watching for any signs of movement.

Nothing. There was nothing there. So, what had disarmed him?

Sam pushed off the tree but was instantly shoved back. The pressure remained on the center of his chest. Hot, fetid breath hit him in the face, burned its way down to his lungs and made him gag. It was there. But he couldn't _see_ it.

And then suddenly he could. It was just…there.

In the blink of an eye, the creature was mere inches from his face, sharp teeth dripping saliva as its throat rumbled with a growl. Sam swallowed, trying to remain perfectly still but unable to control the trembling. Slowly, the thing straightened to its full height. The breath shuddered from Sam's lungs as he looked up into red eyes nearly a foot above his head. The thing had to be seven feet tall, but…that was impossible.

There was a noise, movement to his left. Dean? Sam risked a glance. He could see a figure in the darkness moving steadily closer. When he was near enough to see, shotgun held ready, Sam's heart sank just a little. Not Dean. Pete. Very slowly, Sam lifted a staying hand. The pressure on his chest increased at his motion, the claws piercing layers of clothing, touching skin.

"Stay back, Pete," Sam warned. "That shotgun's not going to do you any good. Find my .45."

The creature snorted its own warning, and Sam shut up, wincing as one of the claws broke flesh.

Pete reached into the pocket of his hunting jacket and pulled something out. The chrome was easier to see in the dark, its surface catching any ambient light. The .45.

Sam allowed himself a touch of relief. "Shoot it, Pete. Anywhere. Just get it off me, and I'll take care of the rest."

Three more claws embedded in his chest, deeper this time, and Sam gasped. Pete crept closer, .45 extended. Sam tensed, waited for the shot. The hunter was getting close. Too close. The creature snarled.

"Pete…"

"Now why would I want to shoot my own kin?"

Sam's head whipped toward the man, his heart hammering a little faster. "What?"

"Cousin, really. Well, distant cousin. But kin is kin, right?"

"Y-you're kidding me, right?" Sam could barely form the words. There was an instant of greater pressure on his chest, then the claws were withdrawn. The creature sidestepped, and Pete took its place before Sam, leveling the gun at Sam's chest. "My God, you're not kidding." Sam shook his head, bewildered. "Those people. _You_ killed all those people?"

"I never killed nobody, Sam. They was marked. Chosen."

"Chosen for what?" Sam asked, anger mingling with the fear.

Pete smiled. "Let's take a walk."

Jaw set, Sam ground out, "Now why would I want to do that?"

"Because your brother's taking a nap back there, and you don't want JD here to go rip him to shreds. Right?"

Sam remained silent, glaring at the man with loathing, but he couldn't keep the feeling of dread from creeping in, slowly overwhelming everything else. If Dean were able, he'd be calling for Sam, trying to find him. That meant either Pete was telling the truth and Dean was unconscious, or…

Images flooded Sam's mind of the pictures he had seen on the internet. Pictures of bodies lying on a bed of pine needles stained red with blood. Only this time it was Dean's lifeless eyes that gazed up at him, the expression of horror frozen on his face.

Sam blinked, pulled himself back, saw Pete standing before him waggling the gun in the direction he wanted Sam to move. Sam took a step, and Pete reached for him. He batted the hand away and regretted the move instantly when the creature bore down on him, hot breath on his neck, warning growl in his ear. Sam raised his hands in surrender. He could bide his time.

But he couldn't resist a glance back, and a silent prayer that Dean was all right.

**oooOOOooo**

Every time Sam slowed his pace, a shove from behind would get him moving again. They broke from the woods into the meadow, the moonlight washing out all color but giving Sam more light to see by. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the rise across the field, the dark hulk atop it that he made out to be the cabin. Sam glanced back, the knot in his stomach tightening painfully. The creature was gone. If it wasn't here, then—

Sam stopped.

Dean.

Another shove.

He risked turning to face his captor. He was still alive, so he was betting on the fact that Pete needed him that way, at least for now. "Where is it?" he asked urgently.

Pete firmed his grip on the shotgun. "Just move."

"I swear, if you sent it to—"

"_Move_."

And Sam did, but it was to spin a three-sixty, his right hand catching the shotgun and pushing it across Pete's body, throwing him off-balance. Sam followed with a left cross that made him gasp at the jolt to his shoulder, but it knocked his captor to the ground. He wrenched the weapon free, grabbed the .45 from the pocket of Pete's jacket, and took off. He ran for the woods, for Dean.

He was just at the tree line when he hit an invisible barrier head-on. But he didn't need to see to know what it was. The shriek that followed was deafening. Flat on his back, Sam dropped the shotgun, and, still clutching the .45, covered his ears, his mouth open in a silent cry.

Then came the assault on his mind.

Hands clenched into fists and pressed against the sides of his head in an effort to lessen the pain. It was just like back at the motel, only this time it was stronger. Rage, loathing, no…_hatred_…Tears sprang to Sam's eyes at the depth of the emotion; he knew he needed to act before he was completely unable. It took effort to pull the hand away from his head, even more to bring it to bear on…

Sam blinked. The creature stood over him, long, thin legs straddling Sam's, only… Even half-blinded by the sheen of moisture in his eyes, Sam could see that the thing was smaller again. The way it had looked over the hood of the Impala. It didn't make sense, but he didn't have time to think. He tried to take aim, but his hand was shaking so badly, he had to clasp the gun in both hands. He wanted to pull the trigger, but he couldn't. The pain in his head intensified until he choked on a cry, his arms dropping uselessly to his chest, his strength gone.

He heard the crunch of boots on dried grass. The pain began to fade and, as Sam lay panting for breath, he heard Pete's voice somewhere above him.

"That's my girl."

Sam opened his eyes, saw the hunter run a hand over the creature's head and scratch behind its ear. Oh, no, he did not just pet the thing.

"I'll take that," Pete said, leaning over and easily slipping the pistol from Sam's hand.

Sam saw the blow coming too late. He cringed just before it landed, setting off an explosion in his skull.

He gave in to the darkness.

TBC

_A/N: Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews! You guys are great!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you all so much for your wonderful and generous comments! I really appreciate it! I think most of your questions will be answered in this chapter. Then one more to go. Hope you enjoy..._

The Devil Made Me Do It

By AJ Wesley

**Chapter 3**

Someone was calling his name. At least, he thought so. It was so hard to focus. Damn, this was no hangover. Throbbing pain in his head ran down his back and pooled at the base of his spine. What the hell happened?

His name again, clearer this time.

Sam?

"No, son. It's Ernie. Can you open your eyes?"

He'd said that out loud? Ernie? Oh…yeah, Ernie. Ernie was…they were…

"Come on back, Dean."

Dean's eyes flew open in panic. "Where's Sam?" he demanded, wincing at the renewed pain in his head.

"Easy, son. We'll find him. Let's get you checked out first, okay?"

Find him? Sam was missing?

"Can you move? Move your fingers for me, Dean."

Right. Fingers. He had to think to do that. Thinking made his head hurt. Fingers. There. Satisfied? Where was Sam?

"Good. Now your feet."

Oh, come on! Ow. That hurt.

"Good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Dean blinked, saw four, then two. Enough. He dragged his arm up onto his chest, cringing at the pain down his spine. "How many am I holding up?" he croaked.

"Cute," Ernie griped, but there was relief in his voice. "You're a smartass like my son. And you'll be fine. You cracked open the back of your head, though. We need to get that cleaned up."

Dean struggled to sit up. "We need to find Sam."

"Yeah. Charlie and Pete are missing, too."

Halfway up, Dean nearly toppled, but a strong arm around his back braced him, got him sitting upright. The wave of vertigo hit then, and Dean grabbed hold of Ernie's arm until the moment passed. He blinked again, trying to focus. The moonlit forest finally took shape around him. With a grimace, Dean lifted a hand to the back of his head.

Ernie picked up his flashlight from where it had been lying near Dean's head and used it to get a closer look at the bloody mess. "I got a first aid kit in the truck."

"Yeah, there's one in my car, but we don't have time for that right now. I need to find my brother."

"It's still bleedin' some." Ernie reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief. "Here. Hold this on it for a bit."

Dean obeyed, mainly because he couldn't move without becoming dizzy. So he decided on another tactic. "_Sam_?"

Nothing answered his cry but a splitting headache. Dean winced.

"Nice move," Ernie said with a shake of his head. "Look, I'll help you find your brother, just take it easy for a few, okay?"

"Have you seen anything?" Dean wanted to know. "Heard anything?"

Ernie nodded. "I heard somethin'. I was headed towards it. That's how I found you."

"What? What did you hear?"

"It sounded like…" The man struggled for the right words. "…like somebody was hurt."

That did it. Gritting his teeth, Dean pushed himself to his feet, brushing off Ernie's attempt to help. He made it, but had to lean a shoulder against the tree until he could catch his breath. "Which way?" Dean asked.

With a sigh, Ernie pointed.

"Let's go." Every step jarred his bruised back, but he wasn't about to sit there if Sam needed him.

Ernie moved past him to lead the way, and Dean didn't miss the muttered comment: "You're stubborn like my son, too."

**oooOOOooo**

It was cold and damp. He shivered, trying to curl in on himself for warmth. He couldn't. His head was reeling, and it was making him sick. He remained still, lying on his back, trying to calm his queasy stomach. He couldn't even remember why he felt so awful.

Movement. There was someone else there. He could hear the rustle of material. Someone trying not to make a lot of noise.

"Dean?" he called softly, appalled by the sound of his wrecked voice.

The person drew near. Knees cracked. Sam opened his eyes…and instantly jerked back. It wasn't Dean crouched beside him, but Pete. His arms rested on his thighs, and in his right hand was a large hunting knife, the point digging a small hole in the dirt floor. Sam tried to push away, but he couldn't move.

The flood of memory assaulted him, too much, too fast. He closed his eyes against the dizziness and tried to wrap his arms around his aching middle. He tugged, then again, harder. His wrists were caught above his head somewhere.

Sam twisted to see, ignoring the spikes of pain the movement set off in his skull and shoulder. His heart doubled its beat when he saw that each of his hands was tied to wooden spikes imbedded in the floor. He tested his legs; he couldn't move them, either. He was staked out, spread eagle on the floor. And he was stripped to the waist, which explained why he was so cold. Sam focused on his captor once more and glared.

"Nothin' personal, Sam," Pete said with a shrug.

"Yeah, well, I'm taking it pretty personally," Sam shot back, giving his arms a harsh tug for good measure.

"I gotta admit, though, I never seen Evie go after nobody the way she went after you."

Sam's brow lined in confusion. "Evie?"

Pete lifted the knife, used it to point across Sam's chest to the other side of the room. Warily, Sam turned his head. A hanging lantern gave off subdued light, but it didn't reach into the far recesses of the room, or…cellar? There was a staircase leading up that was just visible at the edge of the lantern's glow. And behind it, through the slats in the steps, were those eyes.

With effort, Sam tore his gaze away, brought it back to Pete. "So, what, you're just gonna leave me here?" He tried to keep the tremor from his voice and knew he was failing miserably. "Or do you prefer to watch people being eaten alive?" He was guessing, fishing for answers.

"She ain't gonna eat you alive." The hunter grinned. "She'll wait 'til you're dead."

Okay, he so didn't need to know that. Sam's mind worked furiously, trying to think of a way out of this. He had to stall. He was still trying to think of a reply when he felt a stinging pain at his side, just above the waistband of his jeans. He raised his head in time to see the hunting knife lift, a ribbon of red in its wake.

"Draws 'em out," Pete offered in way of explanation.

Out of instinct, Sam tried to pull away as the blade came at him again, this time making a cut across his ribs. That one hurt more, and he hissed out a breath. "Draws _what_ out?" he gritted through his teeth.

Pete tapped the flat of the blade on his chest. "You're a smart one," he said with a smile that made Sam shudder. "You'll figure it out." He shifted his position, moving to crouch above Sam's head.

Sam watched as his captor's hands moved out of view, then returned with a rolled bandana. There was no question in his mind what it was for. "No," he said on a breath, then drew a lungful of air and managed to bellow, "Dean!" before the gag was jammed in his mouth and tied a lot tighter than necessary. He still protested, throwing in a curse or two just because it made him feel better.

Pete let Sam's head drop to the floor, then gave it a pat. "Bye, Sam." He stood, sheathing his knife.

The hunter headed up the stairs without a single look back. The door squealed open, then slammed closed. Sounds after told him the door was being locked. Sam closed his eyes, tried to breathe slowly.

Okay. Okay. He might not be able to get the ropes untied, but maybe he could loosen the stakes. He couldn't pull them out; the tethers were too long for him to be able to reach. So he moved his right hand up and down, then side to side, trying to widen the hole.

There was a snort, then movement. Sam paused in his work to find that the creature was no longer under the stairs. He swiveled his head, trying to find it.

More noises, from the dark areas of the room. Scritching noises like…rats? Sam's stomach churned. He didn't have the aversion to rodents his brother did, but helpless as he was to fend them off…yeah, he could do without the extra problem. He worked a little faster, trying to ignore the pain of torn stitches on his left shoulder.

Something scurried by in the darkness behind his head. It was getting closer.

Sam bit down hard on the gag and yanked on the leg restraints as well. Maybe the movement would scare the thing off. Then he laughed giddily. The Jersey Devil was somewhere in the room, and he was worried about a rat. He didn't know what the creature was waiting for, but he was in no hurry to find out.

Scritching noises from the other side of the room. Great. More than one rat.

His efforts slowed as nausea crept in. He could feel himself bleeding. Normally, he wouldn't even realize it, but his skin was so cold, he could feel the tiny, warm rivulets running down his side. Sam swallowed repeatedly, closed his eyes.

_Scritch-scratch._

The scurrying got closer. Sam lay there, chest heaving, willing the lightheadedness to pass.

He felt its presence and opened his eyes. Evie stood in the space between his outstretched legs, just below his knees, watching him. He glared back—until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Evie looked. So did Sam.

Where the darkness met the lantern's glow, two tiny red eyes stared back at him. Sam's breath caught, a new wave of fear knotting his insides. This was what he had seen in the cabin: a fleeting glimpse of two spots of red…no, not two…

He squinted into the darkness. From its depths glowed two more sets of red. Sam swallowed, shivering as if the room had suddenly gotten much colder.

It all became clear. From the very first, Evie had been able to sense his intentions, had known he was a threat. A threat to her brood.

Legend said the Jersey Devil was hidden away in the cellar by its mother. It had returned to that familiar place to breed. But…where had it found a mate?

Movement pulled Sam from his thoughts. They were closing in. He was so screwed.

No. He was _dinner_.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean's throat was raw, but he wasn't about to give up. "Sammy?" _Come on, man, answer me. _

His head had finally stopped bleeding, so he'd stuffed the bloody handkerchief into his pocket and kept moving. The walking seemed to have worked out his back, leaving only a dull throb he could deal with. His head still pounded to the rhythm of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the worry that was eating up his insides. "Sam!"

"Dean! Over here!"

He turned, saw Ernie pointing. There was movement in the dark. Someone struggling to stand. Ernie was already headed that way. Dean took off, running full out. He passed Ernie and slid home beside—

Charlie.

The left side of the man's face was coated with blood from a gash above his eyebrow. He sat back on his legs, panting for breath. "Where is it?" he asked, panicked. "Where is it?"

Ernie arrived, wheezing slightly from the exertion. He bent in half, hands on his knees, but managed to gasp out, "Charlie, you all right?"

Dean grabbed the nearest tree for support, fighting back a wave of dizziness. But he couldn't stop. His eyes were already searching again. He took a step to continue on, but someone caught his arm. Ernie.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Sorry, what? Sorry this wasn't Sam? Sorry we couldn't find him?

_Your brother's a dead man._

Dean pulled from the grasp. "He's out here somewhere, Ernie," he said, voice low and dangerous. "And I'm gonna find him."

Ernie nodded once, then turned back to Charlie.

Dean moved off again. "Sam!?"

The snap of bramble swiveled his head to the left, and Dean brought his weapon to bear. Sam would have answered him.

"Hello?"

Dean lowered the .45 and slowly let out the breath he'd been holding.

"That you, Dean?"

"Yeah, Pete, it's me." He tried to keep the disappointment and fear from his voice, but it was getting harder and harder. "Listen…uh…you seen Sam?"

_Your brother's a dead man._

"Well, yeah." Pete stopped in front of him. "He ain't back yet?"

"Back?" Dean asked urgently, allowing the smallest glimmer of hope. "Where did he go?"

"Jersey Devil came after me. Your brother drew it off. Saved my life."

"Which way, Pete?" Dean didn't have time for stories.

"You shouldn't be goin' anywhere on your own," came Ernie's voice. He joined them, Charlie leaning heavily on his shoulder.

"Ernie—" Dean began.

"I'll go with him," Pete offered, hefting his shotgun.

Ernie nodded.

Dean wasted no more time. He was already heading off at such a quick pace, Pete had to jog to catch up and take over the lead. Dean cursed softly to himself, anger mingling in with the fear. _How many times have we talked about this, Sam? How many? Younger brothers do not play bait. Period. End of story. Yeah, yeah, so you saved his life. Big deal. Look where it got you. Friggin' Boy Scout. If I find you, I'm going to kill_ _you_.

Dean's steps faltered, the anger fading. _No. _When _I find you._

But something was…wrong. There wasn't a doubt in his mind his brother would put his life at risk for someone else, but…Sam would have doubled back. He would have ditched the thing and come back.

If he were able. Dean shook that thought off, focusing on his guide. Pete was plowing through the woods with purpose. He wasn't even looking for Sam.

No. This was wrong.

Dean stopped. "Hey," he barked. "Pete."

The hunter slowed, then stopped and turned back. "Yeah?"

"Where were you?" Dean slipped his finger inside the trigger guard of his pistol, his hackles on the rise.

"What?"

"You came from over there." Dean jerked his head in that direction. "I mean, look at you. There's not a mark on you. You weren't hurt. You weren't knocked out. You should have found us first. But you didn't. Where were you?"

Pete walked toward him, shrugging sheepishly. "I ran."

Dean's body tensed. He wasn't buying it. "Uh-huh. So how do you know Sam came this way?"

Defensiveness now. "I told you, I saw him take off."

"See, here's the thing…" Dean brought the gun up, halting the other man's advance. "In evasive maneuvers, you _never_ move in a straight line. Where're you taking me, Pete?"

"Dean—"

Tired of the games, Dean growled, "Where's my brother?"

Pete stood there, silent and unmoving. Except for his face. A tiny smirk touched his lips, twisting Dean's guts into a tighter knot.

"Gimme the shotgun," he demanded.

The hunter obliged with a nonchalant shrug. Dean grabbed the weapon and flung it into the trees, then took a fistful of Pete's flannel jacket. He brought his gun up where Pete could see it, but before he could utter another word, he felt something press into his ribs.

Dean froze. Pete smiled.

A quick glance revealed chrome, and if there had been any doubt in Dean's mind about Pete, it was gone now. Dean lowered his gun, his body slumping in resignation. He allowed Pete a moment of triumph before taking it away.

Dean took him out in three moves.

Flat on his back, Pete stared up at two guns pointed directly in his face.

"I'm gonna ask you one more time, and so help me—"

Pete laughed. That same laugh Dean had heard back at the club, and it went right up his back. He wanted to pull the trigger, empty _both_ clips into the bastard.

"It don't matter," Pete said. "You'll never make it there in time, anyways."

"Where?" Dean demanded. When he received no answer, he bent closer, a .45 hovering above each of the man's eyes. "Tell me _where_!"

The smile faltered just a little, but still there was no answer.

But…

When Pete had shown up, he'd come from… Dean focused his thoughts, got his bearings.

The cabin.

"He's at the cabin, isn't he?"

No answer.

"_Isn't_ _he_?"

The smile faded all together, and Dean had his answer. With the speed of a striking snake, he slammed the grip of his pistol across Pete's temple. With a grunt, the hunter slumped.

Dean ran. He should have plugged the guy, but it wasn't worth the waste of ammo. He needed everything he had. The Jersey Devil was nowhere around. That meant…

Dean ran faster. His head felt like it would split open, and he found himself veering off course. He had to focus to stay in that straight line, the one he knew would lead him back to the clearing. The meadow shouldn't be far. He hoped. His sense of direction was a bit skewed at the moment. Thorny vines snagged his boots, tried to take him down. Was everything against him? Geez.

He heard the scream above the pounding in his ears. No, no, no. Not now. He didn't slow down. He couldn't.

So when the creature rammed into him, his momentum sent him tumbling head over heels. Dean landed on his stomach, the air knocked from his lungs. With an angry growl, he rolled onto his back just in time to see the devil plummeting toward him, hooves first.

Too close. They would crush his skull. The .45s, where were the .45s? Dean's hands searched for them even though he knew it was too late.

Two shots rang out in close succession.

A screech of pain trailed the creature up into the treetops.

"Dean!"

Dean was already on his feet by the time Ernie and Charlie reached him.

Ernie grabbed Dean's arm to steady him. "You all right? Where's—?"

"It was Pete," Dean managed to gasp out. He dragged in another lungful of air before continuing. "He's…helping the thing. I don't know. I gotta get to Sam."

"What?" Ernie shook his head, bewildered. "Dean—"

"Ernie, that thing is going to be back any minute. I gotta get to the cabin. Sam—" Dean's voice caught in his throat.

Maybe it was the look on his face, or maybe the desperation in his voice, he didn't know. But Ernie released his arm, his face set in determination. "Go," the hunter said. "We'll hold it off for you."

Dean glanced over at Charlie, saw the man nod. A quick scan of the ground revealed the weapons he had lost in his tumble. He picked them up, then flipped Sam's so he was holding the muzzle. He held it out to Ernie. "You'll need this. Aim for its heart. Or its head."

"Silver bullets," Ernie muttered, taking the weapon.

Dean didn't wait around for more. He heard what he thought was an invocation, but he was too far away to be sure. Enough time had been wasted already. He dared to hope it hadn't run out.

**oooOOOooo**

Sweat beaded his skin as Sam continued to struggle. The hard-packed dirt gripped the stakes like cement, refusing to let go. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw from the coarse rope, his muscles stiff and sore, and his shoulder hurt like hell. But he refused to give up.

Evie had settled down at his feet. She sat on her legs, wings folded, and scratched lazily at one ear. She watched him with mild interest, as if she knew his efforts were fruitless. It made Sam fight even more.

Especially when the first of the spawn stepped into the ring of light.

It was no more than a foot tall, a miniature version of its mother. It hop-stepped forward, then rested on its haunches as if its body was too heavy for its frail-looking legs. Despite Sam's frantic struggle, it seemed to draw confidence from its mother's proximity and kept moving closer.

Hop-step.

Hop-step.

It was too close now, so close it made Sam's skin crawl. It was somewhere down by his waist; Sam could see it if he lifted his head. It leaned forward, sniffed. Its head, too big for its body, canted to one side. Another step. Another sniff.

The blood. Oh, God.

The feel of the tiny, dry tongue against his skin sent Sam into a panic. He twisted and bucked, managing to knock the thing away. But it just came right back.

Bolstered by their sibling's progress, the other two creatures closed in. One leaped onto Sam's chest, lapping at the blood that had pooled there. The other newcomer fought for a share of the blood at Sam's waist, then discovered the rivulet from the cut across Sam's ribs. Tiny clawed fingers probed the wounds, making them bleed more.

Sam's struggles were useless, but he couldn't stop. Couldn't give up as the little scavengers tore at his cuts, drawing more and more blood, their tongues like fire against his skin until he thought he would go mad.

The scream that followed was filled with terror and revulsion. The gag trapped most of the sound, but he was beyond the point of caring.

Sam screamed and screamed.

And Evie watched…and waited.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

_a/n: Well, guys, here is the last chapter. Thanks so much for sticking with me. I really appreciate your feedback. You rock!  
_

The Devil Made Me Do It

By AJ Wesley

**Chapter 4**

Dean burst through the door of the cabin, splintering wood when it slammed against the wall. "Sam!?" He grabbed the jamb to hold himself up as he heaved in great lungfuls of air. Once he managed to focus, he rapidly scanned the dark interior. Without the aid of the moonlight, he could barely see, but even before he pulled out his flashlight, he knew his brother wasn't in the room. There was no movement or sound from the loft, but with the ladder in the state of decay it was, he didn't think that was an option. Dean got his legs moving again and headed for the doorway in the rear. They hadn't made it that far before. He held the gun ready as he advanced, floorboards creaking ominously beneath his feet.

The back room was small, a lean-to, once a pantry. Pegs were hammered into the wall on the right, and under them a bench ran the entire length of the room. On the left was another window, this one boarded up, and next to it what Dean assumed was the back door. There was another door a few feet ahead to the right. Still fighting vertigo, he hurried to the only other option he could see. A cellar?

Dean yanked the door open. Shelves lined the inside of the small storage space.

Damn it!

He turned into the small room. There was nowhere else to look. Dean collapsed onto the bench. He was wrong. Sam wasn't here. He wasn't—

The noise made him look back. Now that his breathing had returned to normal and the blood wasn't pounding so fiercely in his ears, he could hear it. It sounded like…

Taun-tauns? They had just recently watched a marathon of _Star Wars_ movies, and that was the only comparison he could think of.

What the—? Dean listened. It _did_ sound like taun-tauns. And something else. A sound that made Dean's blood run cold. Screaming. Someone was screaming. Muffled as it was, Dean could still hear it, and he knew. He just _knew_.

"Sammy!" Dean shot to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head.

Frantic, he scanned the small closet, noting the recess in the wall on the right, the arcing scrape marks on the floor. A hidden doorway. Holding the flashlight under his arm, Dean grabbed the closest shelf and pulled. The false wall shifted, swinging toward him to reveal a door. A sturdy, solid wooden door that was obviously a more recent addition. It was padlocked.

One carefully aimed silver bullet took care of that problem.

The metal was still hot when Dean grabbed it and tossed it aside. He didn't care. The screams were waning. God, no. He bounded down the stairs and stopped dead.

It was blocking his path.

Years and years of training told him not to take his gaze from the threat before him, but his eyes were drawn to what lay behind the creature.

Sam.

His brother lay staked out on the dirt floor, struggling weakly against his bonds.

And then there were those…things. Three of them. They were like little vultures, snapping at each other over their prize, their sharp little claws drawing fresh blood that they greedily lapped up.

Sam's head arched back, the muscles in his neck taut with strain, then he collapsed back with a feeble cry.

The macabre sight made Dean sick. It terrified him. It infuriated him.

Dean turned that fury loose.

He put three bullets dead center in the creature's chest, then one between its eyes. Before it even hit the floor, he dropped his flashlight, drew out his machete, and took off its head. His rage made him want to hack it to pieces, but he reined the anger in and stepped over the twitching body to the more pressing matter: the one that threatened his brother's life.

Sam was no longer moving. And as much as Dean had hated hearing those screams, at least they'd assured him his brother was alive. The silence was even more terrifying.

The little abomination on Sam's chest hissed at Dean. They were too close to Sam to shoot, so Dean stepped in and kicked the one atop Sam, sending it crashing into the dirt wall. It hit the floor with a shrill squeal, but was on its feet and scurrying back with surprising speed. Dean took it out with one shot.

Another of the little devils attached itself to one of Dean's legs, the tiny claws piercing the denim of his jeans with ease and embedding in his skin. With a growl of pain, Dean grabbed the thing by the neck and tore it off. He drop-kicked the sucker and shot it mid-air.

One to go.

This one was in a frenzy, squawking and running in circles. When it was far enough from Sam, Dean bisected it with the machete.

The job done, Dean ignored the carnage and slipped from soldier mode to big brother in the space of a heartbeat. He dropped to his knees beside Sam, letting his weapons fall.

Sam's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and now that Dean was looking, he could see the trembling rise and fall of Sam's chest and knew his brother was alive. But as his gaze took in the angry claw marks, the nearly shredded skin, and the blood, Dean felt the knot in his stomach tighten. With just a little more time, those things would have—

"God, Sammy," he said on a breath, laying a gentle hand on his brother's abdomen.

Sam's cry held little strength and quickly faded to a whimper. Dean could feel him shaking.

Dean's other hand went to the sweat-soaked tousle of dark hair, stilling the rocking head. "Sam, it's me," he said softly. "It's okay. You're okay. Shhh." He brushed back the damp hair, his hand sliding down to rest against the right side of Sam's face. His thumb wiped away the wetness that escaped when Sam's eyes blinked open.

It took Sam a moment to focus. Then Dean heard his name, understood it even through the gag.

"Yeah, it's me, little brother," he assured.

Sam's chest heaved with great breaths, his relief palpable. He leaned his head into Dean's hand with a muffled sob.

Dean took the embrace for what it was, his own eyes welling at the raw emotion. He quickly regained control and patted Sam's head. "Let's get this thing off, okay?" The gag was too tight to pull out, so he pushed Sam's head to the side to get to the knot in back. It took him longer than he expected, and damn his shaking hands, so he finally dug the small knife out of his boot and carefully cut the thing off.

The words came tumbling out with the gag.

"Dean…"

"I'm here, Sam." He went to work on the ropes.

"Dean. They were…they were…"

"I know, Sam."

"Oh, God."

Dean let him ramble, offering quiet reassurances as he worked through the thick, coarse rope. He didn't dare cut the binding around Sam's abraded wrists; he could get those off later. Instead, he sawed through the length attached to the stake. He got Sam's right arm free, then moved on to the left, noting with dismay the missing bandages and torn stitches on that shoulder.

"I can…s-still…feel them on me." Sam shuddered through the memory. His breathing was becoming more erratic; relaying the story was sending him into another panic attack.

Dean shifted, set down the knife, and took Sam's face in both his hands. "Sam. Sammy, look at me. Look at me." He waited until his brother's eyes met his. "Pull it together for me, Sam. I need to get you outta here, but you gotta help me, okay? You hear me? I need your help."

"Okay," Sam gasped. "Okay." He closed his mouth, lips pressed together in a hard, thin line. He breathed through his nose, deep, shaky breaths at first, but they slowed, evened out.

Dean felt a surge of admiration at the effort. And he knew Sam was doing it for him, because he'd asked. He tousled Sam's hair. "Attaboy." He returned to the task of cutting the ropes.

With nothing left but sheer exhaustion, Sam closed his eyes. Dean got the left arm undone and noticed his brother barely flinched when he moved it down to his side. Dean paused a moment to gather his strength, but knew he had to move. He walked on his knees down to where he could reach Sam's ankles. The stakes were loose at the surface, and Dean wondered at the strength it took to do that. They had to be buried deep, or Sam would have gotten himself free.

Left leg down, one to go. Dean shifted around between Sam's feet to get a better angle on the final length of rope. Then he heard the noise, turned. He lifted his arm, managing to block the blow that was aimed at his head, but the force was enough to knock him to the floor.

His head protested the jarring, light and pain exploding behind his eyes. Dean felt himself topple. A jumbling of words reached his ears: Sam calling his name. Another voice, familiar, something about returning the favor. And…

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his aching head. He pushed upright on one arm, looked up.

Pete stood over Sam, his booted foot keeping Sam's hand from lifting the pistol in his grasp. Dean's pistol. The one he had dropped. He'd also dropped his machete. The one Pete was holding to Sam's throat. But his hateful gaze was on Dean.

"What did you do?" Pete snarled.

Dean tried to push himself up further, but at Sam's gasp, he froze.

"What did you _do_?!"

A deep growl came from the stairs.

Dean turned. "Oh, man," he groaned. "How many of these things are there?"

This one was huge. Well, that explained the inconsistencies of the witness reports. There was a big difference between four feet tall and seven feet tall. Guess nobody figured there was more than one.

Its hooves clacked on the wooden steps. Its eyes took in the massacre. Then it wailed.

Dean covered his ears, gritting his teeth until it stopped. When he looked up again, the thing was looming over him. "Geez!" He scrambled back, but the creature ignored him and took another step toward Sam.

No.

Not Sam.

It was looking at the machete. The bloodstained machete in Pete's hand. Its eyes narrowed as its gaze lifted to Pete.

And suddenly Pete realized what it was thinking. He backed up a step, shaking his head. "JD, no. I didn't do this. It was them!"

The creature kept up its advance, backing Pete into the shadows. Apparently, it could put two and two together and come up with four, but anything more was beyond its ability.

Dean took advantage of the distraction to crawl over and slice through the final length of rope to free Sam. He ignored the death screams as he climbed to his feet and helped his brother up, pried the pistol from his hand, and pulled Sam's right arm across his shoulders. Sam hissed in pain, but he was moving.

The stairs seemed so far away.

The silence was deafening. More so than the screams.

Dean knew they were in trouble. He was no math whiz by any means, but it wasn't hard to figure out that the clip in the .45 was empty. Damn.

In what he could honestly say was the blink of an eye, the creature was in front of them, blocking the stairs. Man, it moved fast. Apparently, one kill wasn't enough.

Dean pushed Sam behind him, shielding him for all the good it would do. He raised the pistol, hoping the thing would recognize it as a threat.

It hesitated.

"Dean, your head…"

"Not now, Sam," he growled. Out of habit, his finger tightened on the trigger. He heard the report, but…he hadn't pulled the trigger. Had he?

Three more shots.

The Jersey Devil hit the floor.

Dean looked up the stairs, at the man who had saved his life for a second time that night.

"Huh," Ernie said, regarding the pistol in his hand. "Silver bullets work."

**oooOOOooo**

The trip up the stairs wasn't too bad. Sam teetered every so often, but Dean held onto him, kept him from falling. The kid was still shaking, and Dean knew it wasn't all from the cold.

The creaking of the staircase behind them startled Sam. His reaction was so violent, it nearly sent them both tumbling backwards.

Dean grabbed the railing—it was a more recent addition, too, thank goodness—and got them both steadied before taking hold of Sam with both hands. He glanced down the stairs and saw Ernie, Sam's shirts and jacket in his hands, frozen mid-step on the lower stairs. Dean nodded to him, then gave his full attention to his brother. "It's okay, Sam. They're dead. They're all dead. Remember?"

Sam's chest was heaving again, but he closed his eyes and nodded. He was trying so hard. "I know," he panted. "I know. 'M sorry…sorry."

Dean carefully got them moving again, awkwardly since Sam's grip on him was approaching painful. "Quit apologizing, Sam. None of this was your fault." Halfway there.

"It was."

Dean stopped. "What?"

"My fault. It could sense me. It knew…why we were…here." He was fading fast.

"Shut up, Sam." Dean wanted nothing more than for them to be far away from this place. "Save your strength. We'll talk about this later." And damn it, Sam would, too.

It took a little longer than he'd hoped, but Dean finally got Sam up into the lean-to and settled on the bench there. Sam sat leaning back against the wall, exhaustion, blood loss, and shock sapping his strength. His eyes slipped closed, and it seemed like he had passed out. Except for the grip he had on Dean's left arm. Sure, it restricted his movement some, but Dean wasn't about to break that contact. He turned slightly, reaching out a hand to Ernie for Sam's clothes, and the flashlight he'd dropped on the cellar floor. Once he had them in hand, he nodded to the hunter. "Thanks, Ernie."

Ernie clapped him gently on his upper arm. "See to your brother. I'm gonna go check on Charlie." He left without another word.

Dean crouched beside the bench and fished the flashlight from the jumble of clothes. The beam illuminated the mess that was Sam's side, and Dean noted with a frown that he was bleeding again. He set the light on the bench to Sam's left, then bundled up Sam's t-shirt and pressed it against the largest of the wounds.

Sam jerked, whimpering softly as he tried with his one free hand to push away what was causing him more pain. His breathing was becoming erratic again.

Dean caught his brother's hand and guided it to the bundled shirt. "Hold that for me, Sam, okay? You hear me? Sam." It sounded a little harsher than he'd meant, but it worked.

Sam's eyes opened, his gaze searching for a moment before settling on Dean.

"You with me?" Dean softened his voice, offering his brother a smile. Sam swallowed, nodded. Beneath his own, Dean felt Sam's hand press down on the shirt. "Good. Now just hold that a minute." As quickly as he could, Dean picked up Sam's flannel shirt and folded the body of it up, leaving the arms hanging loose. With only a little difficulty, he slipped it around Sam's waist and tied off the sleeves. Sam's hand hit the bench, his knuckles rapping wood as if holding the makeshift bandage in place had used up the last of his strength. His eyes slid closed again. Not good, considered the walk they had ahead of them. The rest of the first aid could wait until they got back to the motel. The challenge now was getting Sam on his feet and moving.

Dean shook out Sam's jacket and carefully threaded his brother's left arm into the sleeve. He stood and nudged Sam away from the wall to get the jacket around him. "A little help here, Sam," he grumbled without annoyance. With effort, Sam sat up, his shoulders slumped. Okay. Now for the hard part. "I need you to let go, Sam." He got a confused look in response. Dean lifted his left arm, bringing Sam's right up with it into view. It took some doing on both their parts, but Dean finally managed to get his grip pried loose and the jacket on Sam. He picked up the flashlight and sat on the bench beside his brother, and carefully drew Sam's arm across his shoulders. "Ready, Sammy? On three."

Sam nodded, setting his feet, drawing a breath. A moan rumbled in his throat on the way up, and for a minute there, Dean thought Sam was going to crash. But he managed to steady himself, the death grip once again taking a fistful of Dean's jacket.

"All right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam gasped.

It was a lie, but one Dean would allow. Trying not to think too hard about the long road ahead, Dean started moving.

**oooOOOooo**

The walk back to the car was déjà vu. Well, almost. The last time—was it only yesterday?—Dean had been at full strength. This time, he could only wish he was. His head was pounding to the heavy beat of his heart. He kept swallowing, hoping the nausea would pass, but the forest kept tilting this way and that, making it worse. His legs were shaking with strain, but he had to keep going. For Sam.

Who was getting heavier and heavier.

Dean took another step, then felt himself sinking. "No," he growled, and cursed himself for his weakness.

Then suddenly, he was being hauled up.

"On your feet, Dean. Come on," ordered the gruff voice.

"Yes, sir," left his lips automatically. Dean blinked, focused.

Ernie.

Dean locked his legs, took a deep breath. Okay. He could do this. Even Sam's weight felt lighter. Dean turned his head, saw Charlie supporting Sam on the other side, thankfully cautious with Sam's arm. Neither man tried to separate them. Which was a good thing. With all they'd been through together, Dean would have hated to have to beat the crap out of them.

He had no idea how far they'd come or how much farther they had to go. He simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Just like that Rankin Bass song. Dean grinned. He remembered singing it to Sammy when he'd taught him how to walk, so long ago. Another lifetime.

"Are you…hum'ng?" Sam.

It was good to hear his voice. "Yeah, so?" Dean tried his best to sound indignant.

"Okay…Winter Warlock."

So they recited lines the rest of the way. Not just from _Here Comes Santa Claus_, but other Rankin Bass classics as well. It gave Dean something else to focus on, and seemed to make Sam more alert. Dean was just about to launch into his rendition of the Heat Miser's song when they stopped. The Piney Power pickup—say that three times fast—sat before them and, just to the right of it, the Impala. And what a beautiful sight she was. Dean moved in her direction, but Ernie held him back.

"Where do you think you're going?" the man asked.

Dean straightened, rising to the challenge. "I'm taking Sam back to the motel. You got a problem with that?"

"You bet I do," Ernie shot back, not intimidated in the least. "You're in no condition to drive, and the motel is a half-hour away."

"Not the way I plan to drive."

"The gun club is a few minutes away. I've got a back room and all the supplies you need. Now get in the back of the truck."

"Now just—"

"Don't argue with me, boy."

A snicker from Dean's right drew his attention, and he turned to his brother. "What are you laughing at?" he growled, but he couldn't hold the anger at the smile on Sam's face. "Shut up," he said finally. He turned back to Ernie. "What about my car?"

"You can leave it here. Or Charlie could drive it back to the club."

Dean tossed a glance a Charlie. "He's not in much better shape than I am."

"_He_ don't have a concussion," Ernie said.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean sighed. They were wasting time, and he was losing this argument. And Sam was getting heavy again. "Fine." He supported Sam with one hand long enough to dig the keys out of his pocket and pass them to Charlie. "One scratch, and it's coming out of your hide."

Charlie raised one hand in mock surrender, then helped get Sam to the back of the pickup. Ernie opened the tailgate, then headed around to the cab as Dean hopped up into the open bed. Sam was able to boost himself up onto the edge and use his legs to push himself back. Shrugging out of his jacket, Dean sat in the back corner, stretching his legs out along the width of the cab. Sam's face screwed up into a wince as he listed and tried to catch himself with his bad arm.

"Easy, easy." Dean reached for him, caught him as the arm gave out. It took some maneuvering, but he finally managed to get his brother settled onto his back, Sam's head pillowed on Dean's thigh.

Sam gave a shaky sigh, finally able to let exhaustion claim him. He sank even deeper when Dean covered him with the leather jacket.

A rap on the cab's window signaled Ernie they were ready to go.

The ride to the gun club was a lot longer than "a few minutes." Ernie was taking it slow along the bumpy road, and still Dean's head felt like it was going to explode. He held onto Sam, trying to keep him from being jostled too much. Which proved worthless when they turned onto the dirt road to the club. Forget potholes. These were craters.

Sam groaned. "Are we there yet?"

"What, you don't like the accommodations?"

"Sucks."

Dean laughed, mussing Sam's hair fondly.

When they finally rolled to a halt in front of the cabin, Dean sighed with relief. He watched the Impala pull in alongside the pickup. Charlie got out and waited for Ernie to open the tailgate.

"Okay, Sam," Dean said, shifting under his brother's weight, "last leg." Speaking of legs, his left was asleep.

Ernie climbed up into the bed and eased Sam upright. Getting out of the pickup proved harder than getting in, and he paused at the tailgate to let Sam catch his breath. That gave Dean time to catch up. He grabbed his jacket and slid off the edge, shaking out his leg that now stung with the pins and needles of returning circulation. It didn't matter, though. He muscled his way in to take Sam from Ernie with a gruff, "I got him."

"Dean…"

"I said, I got him."

Ernie didn't say another word; he simply moved on ahead into the club. Charlie hovered, just in case. But Ernie had parked right next to the cabin. Dean only had a few more paces to go before he reached the…

Steps. Oh, man.

Dean paused, gathered his strength. "Three steps, Sam. Ready?" A nod of the lolling head was his answer. Good enough.

Sam stepped with his left, then drew his right leg up to meet it. Dean matched him and held on as Sam shifted his weight and repeated the process.

"One more, bro," Dean said.

Sam groaned a bit on the last one, but he made it. The trip to the back room was a piece of cake after that. It was with a sigh of relief that Dean lowered his brother onto the edge of the bed. Ernie had already laid down garbage bags and covered them with towels to protect the mattress. Dean eased Sam out of his jacket, then got him settled. Sam sank gratefully into the pillow, the sweat-soaked hair in stark contrast with his pale skin and the white of the pillowcase.

The bed was small, not much wider than a cot, but at least it had a real mattress. Okay, so Sam's feet hung off the end. At the moment, he didn't seem to mind. With no room to sit on the edge of the bed, Dean sank to the floor by Sam's head, his back to the wall. The wooden frame sat only about two feet off the floor, so Dean propped his left arm on the edge and watched his brother give in to the exhaustion. Sam was safe.

And Dean felt his adrenaline rush slipping away.

_So _not good.

Dean blinked his eyes wide and sucked in a lungful of air, hoping to clear the cobwebs clouding his brain. He had work to do. Shifting onto his knees, Dean slid across the wooden floor until he could reach Sam's wrist. The remains of the bonds still encircled the abraded skin. Thankful for the calluses on his fingers, Dean worked at the coarse rope until the knot finally loosened.

Ernie entered the room with the promised supplies. Charlie followed him in carrying a basin of water. He set his burden on the floor beside Dean, offered a sympathetic look, then left the room without a word. Ernie remained, tackling the ropes around Sam's ankles as Dean eased them from around Sam's right wrist. Next, he washed his hands thoroughly with the antiseptic wipes from the supplies their host had brought, wincing at the sting from all the tiny cuts. Damn thorny vines. He grabbed up a washcloth and dropped it in the basin. The water was warm. He didn't realize how cold his hands were until they were bathed in the warmth.

"When you're finished," Ernie said, tossing aside the last of the bindings, "I want to take a look at that head of yours."

"I'm fine," Dean said without looking up from sorting the supplies.

"Are we going to do this again?" Ernie kept his voice low and calm. "You're not fine, you—"

Dean lost it, retorting loudly, "I swear, if you—" then cut himself off, his head feeling like it had split in half.

"Uh-huh." Ernie stood, patted Dean's shoulder. "Lose your temper; lose the argument. I'll see you out by the bar when you're through."

Dean watched him leave and cursed under his breath. The fact that the man was right made him mad. Dean knew he had a concussion. He could feel it. But he wasn't used to accepting help from outsiders. They either didn't care, were too scared, or were just totally oblivious. He should be grateful, but right now, he was too angry.

"Dean?"

The weak call drew his undivided attention. "Hey," he said warmly. "You should be asleep." And, damn it, he'd really hoped Sam would be out when he cleaned the worst of the wounds.

"Kinda hard…with all that racket." Sam's brows drew together. "You okay?"

"Don't you worry about me." Dean offered him a smile but it quickly faded. "Look, I…uh…"

Sam nodded. "I know. Just do it."

Dean turned his attention to untying the knotted sleeves of the flannel shirt. The t-shirt was a little harder to remove; Dean had to wet it where the blood had dried. Tiny rivulets of bloodstained water slipped down Sam's waist and dripped onto the towel beneath. The t-shirt came away easily, revealing the damaged skin.

Dean chewed on his lower lip as he took his first good look at the wounds. Sam's shoulder was a mess, there were three tiny punctures on the center of his chest, and a gash on his right side, across his ribs. But the worst of the bunch was the one at his waist.

"Oh, God."

Glancing up, Dean saw his patient had lifted his head and was looking down at the bloody mess. Sam uttered a curse and let his head fall back onto the pillow.

"It always hurts more when you look, Sammy," Dean admonished. Well, that's what Dad had always said when they were growing up.

"No," Sam shot back, his voice strained, "it hurt just as much before I looked. Now I just…feel sick."

Dean picked up the washcloth and wrung out the excess water. "Well, if you're gonna hurl, do it _that_ way." He stabbed a finger at the wall on the other side of the bed. "Besides," he added, his voice softening, "it looks worse than it really is." He hoped that was true. The largest of the gashes was still seeping blood, but he had to get it cleaned up before he could really tell. "Okay, here we go."

Dean took a breath, then went to work, starting with the punctures on Sam's chest, then the gash. His brother's body jerked beneath his touch, the pale face creasing in pain, but he made it through the first part with no more than a strained groan. Dean rinsed out the washcloth, watched the water swirl with red. He squeezed out some of the excess water from the cloth and returned to the cleaning.

Sam jolted again, breath hissing through his teeth. His fists clenched and unclenched, then his legs started to move.

"Hold still, Sam."

"Easy…for you…to say…"

"You know," Dean said, trying to keep his brother focused on something other than the pain, "this is becoming a habit with you."

Sam barked a laugh that turned into a growl of pain. Then he told Dean exactly what he could do with himself.

"Nice. Where'd you pick up that language?" He grinned. "Oh, wait. Never mind."

Another laugh, short and breathless. Sam was silent for a moment, then the conversation Dean had been dreading began.

"Do you think…?" Sam paused, gritting his teeth. "Do you think I could…sense it because of…you know."

Dean shrugged. He didn't like talking to Sam about his "abilities," for no other reason than he didn't have the answers. But Sam needed answers. Without looking up, he said, "Maybe. Or maybe it was a freak like you." When Sam didn't comment, Dean glanced up, caught the glare. "Well…it was already pretty freaky, huh? Would that make it a freaky freak?"

Sam wasn't amused. Dean cleared his throat and went back to work.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

Dean set the washcloth aside and picked up the antibacterial cream. He slathered on a generous amount, then opened a package of gauze.

Sam sighed. "Maybe you're right," he said finally. "I only felt the connection with the female."

"What is it with you and chicks on this trip, Sammy?" Dean finished taping the gauze in place, then his eyes slid to the right, to the oozing mess at his brother's waist. Now for the hard part.

Sam gave a strained laugh, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as Dean started the cleansing again. "Yeah. What I don't get is…" He grunted, hands clenching to fists. "…where did it…_ow_…find a mate?"

"Dude, I don't even want to go there." Damn, this looked awful. "But you know all those sketches we saw? Remember how different some of them were over the years? Maybe it _has_ changed that much over three hundred years. It mated with…you know…whatever." Dean shuddered at the thought. "Hey, just like _Jurassic Park_, right? Nature finds a way."

Silence.

Dean looked up.

Sam was impossibly paler. Sweat beaded along his upper lip and across his brow, and there were tears of pain pooled in the corners of his eyes. Dean hated this. It was so much easier in the days when Dad would do the first aid and Dean's only job was to hold on to Sam, offer him what strength and comfort he could.

Sam's fingers curled around Dean's arm in a painfully tight grip. "Dean…" he gasped. "Dean, stop…please. Just…give me a sec…"

Dean sucked in a breath, nodded. "Okay." He watched as his brother tried to regain control of his breathing, of his trembling limbs. "Ernie's got whiskey."

The dark head rolled against the pillow.

"Not for you, man. For me."

Sam smiled. "Jerk."

Dean pulled his arm gently from Sam's grasp. He shifted back toward the head of the bed, laying a hand over Sam's and giving it a squeeze. Sam grasped it like a lifeline. Dean's other hand brushed back the damp bangs, lingered on Sam's head. "Go to sleep, Sam. I'll wait."

Sam nodded, a tear breaking loose and tracing its way down to the pillow.

And Dean waited.

Waited until the tension melted from Sam's body. Until his brother sank impossibly deeper into the mattress. Until the soft sigh escaped Sam's lips. And finally, the grip on his hand loosened. Dean waited a little longer, just to be sure.

This time, Sam barely flinched.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean closed the door behind him as he stepped out into the main room. It was so quiet, for a moment Dean thought no one else was there. Then Ernie emerged from a door behind the bar, a case of beer in his arms.

"How's Sam?" the man asked, setting the case on the floor.

Dean glanced back at the closed door. "He's sleeping. He'll be fine. Charlie?"

"I sent him home."

He nodded, then gave Ernie a serious look. "Thanks."

Ernie waved off the recognition. "You get all the credit, son. I ain't never seen anyone with so much grit."

Dean slid onto one of the bar stools with a shrug. "He's my brother," he said, as if that should explain everything. "He's all I got. Our dad…" He stopped, deciding not to go there. "Well…we're looking for him."

"You'll find him," Ernie said with certainty.

Dean smiled. He wished he was so sure.

A bottle of whiskey and a first aid kit hit the bar in front of him. Dean looked up.

"Your turn," Ernie said.

Dean groaned.

**oooOOOooo**

Sam blinked his eyes open to a darkened room. A small night-light cast an orange glow, giving him just enough help to see. He was used to waking up in places he didn't recognize; that came with the job. But something was wrong. He took in the unfamiliar surroundings before taking stock of himself. His shoulder was bandaged once again, there was gauze taped to his chest and over his ribs on the right side, and his waist was wrapped with layers of white. He recognized Dean's handiwork. So…where was Dean?

Panic stole his breath. His brother would be there. He always was.

Sam threw back the covers and sat up a little too quickly. Once the room stopped spinning, he pressed a protective arm around his middle and stood. He made it across the room with surprising speed and yanked open the door.

Ernie looked up from his newspaper, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "He's right over there, son." He motioned with his head toward the living area, and Dean sound asleep on the sofa.

The tension slowly melted from Sam's body, leaving him worn out from the exertion. He hitched his left side onto a bar stool and rubbed a hand over his face. "How long was I out?"

"On and off for about twelve hours," Ernie said, setting his paper aside. "You don't remember getting up a couple of times?"

Sam shook his head. "It's kind of a blur." He glanced over at Dean again. "Is he okay?"

"He had a pretty nasty gash on the back of his head. Concussion. He's probably black and blue, too, but he wouldn't let me do more than patch up his head. He wanted to get back in there and make sure you were okay."

Sam smiled, nodding.

"After a couple of hours I checked in on you two. He was sitting against the wall by the head of your bed, sound asleep. I finally managed to get him to lay on the couch, but only after I promised I would keep an eye on you."

Sam felt his cheeks flush. His brother's over-protectiveness could be embarrassing at times, but Ernie didn't seem to think anything of it. Dean would always be his big brother; nothing would ever change that. And truthfully, Sam wouldn't want it to.

Besides, little brothers could be protective, too.

So Sam claimed the chair beside the sofa and sat his own vigil. The trophy wall kinda creeped him out, but with the exception of shuffling to the bathroom, and bidding Ernie good night, he didn't leave his brother's side.

It was morning when he woke again, judging by the clock on the mantel.

Sam stretched carefully and picked up the remote from the end table. He flicked through nearly ninety channels—no cable out here, but Ernie had satellite—before settling on "The Three Stooges." It was a good one with Curley. The one at the golf course. He'd seen every episode at least a dozen times, so watching it on mute was not a problem. He didn't want to disturb his gently snoring brother.

Dean was on his stomach, his right arm dangling off the side of the sofa, knuckles brushing the rug. Unfortunately, his six-foot-one frame didn't quite fit, so his knees were bent, his lower legs leaning against the padded arm. His feet, clad only in dingy white socks, were hooked over the arm. One side of Dean's face was crushed comically into his pillow, his mouth hanging open. Sam grinned, shaking his head, but the grin faded when his gaze settled once again on the bandage wrapped neatly around his brother's head.

The front door opened and Ernie stepped inside, a large brown paper bag in his hands. "Morning," he said softly.

"Morning," Sam returned just as quietly. He shot a glance at Dean, but his brother never stirred.

"I brought breakfast. Hope you like steak and eggs."

Sam's stomach growled in response. When was the last time he'd eaten, anyway? "Sounds great." He began working his way out of the chair. "But what are you doing here so early?"

"Well, my wife passed on about six years ago, and my son Jeff—that's his picture on the mantel—he's in the Corps. He's serving in Iraq now, so I spend most of my time here."

When Sam finally made it to his feet, he glanced at the picture of father and son, Jeff in his dress uniform. "You must be proud."

"You bet."

By the time Sam made it to the bar, Ernie had the aluminum containers opened and waiting. It smelled wonderful. Sam claimed a stool and picked up a plastic fork.

Ernie humphed, looking at Sam's bandaged shoulder. "Huh. I forgot. You gonna be able to cut that steak?"

"I'll manage," Sam said with a smile. He dug into the fluffy scrambled eggs.

"I brought some for Dean, whenever he decides it's time to wake up." Ernie shook his head. "Stubborn cuss."

Sam laughed. "That he is." He cut a piece of steak one-handed, the plastic knife sinking right into the tender meat. It was heavenly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had one.

They fell silent for a few moments, enjoying the food. A twinge of anxiety gripped Sam as his curiosity got the better of him. "Ernie?"

"Hmm?"

"How well did you know Pete?"

Ernie stopped chewing, his gaze meeting Sam's. Then he nodded as if he'd been expecting the subject to come up. "Apparently not as well as I thought I did." He reached over to grab two large cups from a take-out tray and set one in front of Sam. "I may be a bartender and a good listener, but gossip's not my thing. But I tell you, I never once thought—" He stopped, clearly still shaken.

Sam changed his line of questioning. "What can you tell me about the cabin?"

"The old Shrouds place?" Ernie gave a cynical laugh. "Well, that was something. Few years ago, they were going to tear the place down. I remember when Pete found out about it. He came in here yammering about this and that, said he was gonna have to do something about it. That the place had been in his family for years. Then suddenly it was named a historical landmark. We all figured he had a hand in it somehow."

"Did he…?" Sam paused, not sure how to pose the question.

"What?"

Sam gave a short laugh. Might as well just say it. "Pete told me the Jersey Devil was his kin." He shook his head at how crazy that sounded.

Ernie wasn't laughing.

"That's not…" Sam's smile faded. "It's true?"

"Pete's a…_was_ a descendent of the Shrouds. His family's lived in the Pinelands for over three hundred years. Talked like he owned the whole reserve sometimes, you know? His father was like that, too. My God, you don't think…"

"Family business?" Sam suggested. It wouldn't be the first time he'd seen it.

"Dear Lord."

"Did he have any other family?"

"Not that I know of. He was never married." Ernie shook his head. "He never really talked about the Jersey Devil. Least not more than anybody else. I can't believe he had a hand in all those disappearances. What he almost did to you…"

Sam shrugged with one shoulder. "I guess—"

"I smell food."

The muffled grumble brought a smile back to Sam's face. "It's alive."

The response might have been "shut up," or it might have been something else.

Turning his head still hurt his shoulder, so Sam swiveled on the bar stool in time to see his brother push himself up on his knees, then sit back on his heels. "Steak and eggs, dude."

Dean rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "And coffee?"

"And coffee," Sam said on a laugh. He watched as Dean struggled off the sofa and shuffled zombie-like toward the bar. With a grin, Sam turned back to his breakfast.

Dean inhaled deeply and, with a sigh of contentment, settled on the stool to Sam's right. He reached up and clasped the nape of Sam's neck and gave it a squeeze. That simple display of affection said more than any words ever could.

Then he was all about his food, clapping his hands together as his eyes scanned the bar top for a fork, found one, then looked hungrily at the steak. "Ernie, this is…this is…"

"It's great, thank you," Sam finished for him. Dean nodded and dug in.

Ernie waved it off. "Hell, this was nothing. You boys took quite a beating out there. And yet, here you sit."

Sam paused. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean freeze, his mouth full of food.

Ernie folded his arms on the bar and leaned forward. "When you were spinning those tall tales the first night you showed up here, you said you thought the Jersey Devil was just a myth. Yet you looked that seven-foot son of a bitch in the eye and didn't even blink. You _knew_. And silver bullets? What hunter carries around silver bullets?"

Sam remained silent, his gaze sliding over to Dean. His brother chewed slowly, swallowed. Finally, Dean set down his fork. "Our kind," he said. "The Jersey Devil was real, Ernie." He shrugged with his expression. "So are a lot of other things."

Sam's eyebrows shot up at his brother's honesty. But Ernie had been there. He'd seen the thing. And he'd saved their lives. Sam figured they owed him something, even if it was simply the truth.

Ernie laughed.

Then again…

The laughter faded when they didn't join in.

"You serious?" Ernie asked.

Dean shrugged again. Sam offered a sheepish smile.

The color drained from Ernie's face. "Your breakfast is getting cold," he said, and pulled a bottle from under the bar.

When they had finished, Sam could tell Dean was itching to go. Truthfully, he was ready, too. He so needed to put this all behind him, and getting back on the road was the first step. When Dean returned from the back room with his jacket on, Ernie knew it, too. He regarded them a moment, then held out his hand. Sam shook it.

"Thanks, Ernie."

Dean took the proffered hand as well, and Ernie clapped him on the arm.

"You boys take care of yourselves."

"Yes, sir," Dean said. He held the grip a moment longer. "Thanks."

They stepped out onto the porch, the crisp late morning air chasing away the rest of the sleepiness. The Impala sat waiting, the sun reflecting off the back window. Sam waved off his brother's offer to help him down the steps. It was slow going, but he made it.

They had just reached the car when Ernie's voice stopped them.

"And boys?"

They turned as one.

"When you go back to the motel for your stuff, no need to check out. It's covered."

They stood there for a moment, not sure what to say. Ernie spared them a response when he waved and went back inside.

With a smile, Sam opened the car door and slid carefully onto the sun-warmed vinyl. Closing the door was a bit of a challenge, but he managed, then sank back into the seat with a sigh.

Dean was already behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. "Good man."

"Yeah."

"And you didn't want to come to New Jersey."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Neither did you, as I recall. You kept complaining that they don't let you pump your own gas."

"Well, they don't. I mean, what's up with that?"

Shaking his head, Sam turned his gaze to the window and the forest passing by beyond it. Shafts of sunlight beamed through the trees, giving it an almost ethereal look. There were—

Sam blinked, sat up.

"You okay?"

Sam scanned the woods again, but there was nothing. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'm fine. Let's just go." He sank back in the seat again and rubbed a hand over his face. For a second, just a second, he thought he'd seen a set of glowing red eyes.

But that was stupid.

Right?

Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He couldn't wait to get out of New Jersey.

The End


End file.
